Lady Sophia's Lover

CHAPTER 1

It had been too long since he had bedded a woman. Sir Ross Cannon could think of no other explanation for his reaction to Sophia Sydney...a response so powerful that he was forced to sit behind his desk to conceal a sudden, uncontrollable erection. Perplexed, he stared intently at the woman, wondering why her mere presence was enough to ignite such raging heat inside him. No one ever caught him off guard this way.

She was undeniably lovely, with her honey-shaded hair and blue eyes, but she possessed a quality that surpassed physical beauty: a hint of passion contained beneath the frail gravity of her facade. Like any man, Ross was aroused more by what was concealed than by what was revealed. And clearly, Sophia Sydney was a woman of many secrets.

Silently he strove to control his sexual awareness of her, focusing on the scarred mahogany surface of his desk until the flare of heat subsided. When he was finally able to meet her unfathomable gaze, he remained quiet, having learned long ago that silence was a powerful instrument. People were uncomfortable with silence--they usually sought to fill it, revealing much in the process.

However, Sophia did not erupt into nervous chatter as so many women did. She stared at him warily and did not speak. Obviously she was prepared to outwait him.

"Miss Sydney," he finally said, "my clerk informs me that you would not disclose the reason for your visit."

"If I had told him why, I would not have been allowed past the threshold. You see, I have come about the position you advertised."

Ross was seldom surprised by anything, having seen and experienced far too much in the course of his work. However, the notion that she would want to workhere , for him, was no less than astonishing. Apparently she had no idea of what the job entailed. "I require an assistant, Miss Sydney. Someone who will act as a part-time clerk and records-keeper. Bow Street is not the place for a woman."

"The advertisement did not specify that your assistant had to be male," she pointed out. "I can read, write, manage household expenditures, and keep account books. Why shouldn't I be considered for the job?"

A hint of challenge had colored her deferential tone. Fascinated and vaguely unsettled, Ross wondered if they had ever met before. No--he would have remembered her. And yet there was something oddly familiar about her.

"What is your age?" he asked abruptly. "Twenty-two? Twenty-three?"

"I am eight-and-twenty, sir."

"Really." He did not believe her. She appeared far too young to have reached an age that was considered to be advanced spinsterhood.

"Yes, really." Seeming amused, she moved to lean over his desk, placing her hands before him. "You see? One can always tell a woman's age by her hands."

Ross studied the small hands that had been proffered without vanity. They were not the hands of a girl, but of a capable woman--one who had known hard work. Although her nails were scrupulously clean, they were filed almost to the quick. Her fingers were marked with thin white scars that had come from accidental cuts and scrapes, and with a crescent-shaped burn that must have come from a bake-pan or pot. Sophia resumed her seat, the light sliding gently over her rich brown hair. "You don't look the way I expected, either," she informed him.

Ross arched a brow in sardonic inquiry. "Oh?"

"I thought you would be a portly old gentleman with a wig and a pipe."

That drew a brief laugh from him, low and scratchy, and he realized that it had been a long time since he had made such a sound. For some reason he could not help asking, "Are you disappointed to find otherwise?"

"No," she said, sounding a bit breathless. "No, I am not disappointed."

The temperature in the office rose to a blistering degree. Ross could not help wondering if she found him attractive. He would soon be forty, and he looked his age. Threads of silver had begun to appear in his black hair. Years of relentless work and little sleep had left their mark, and the reckless pace of his life had left him almost rawboned. He did not have the settled, pampered look that many married men his age possessed. Of course, they did not prowl the streets at night as he did, investigating murders and robberies, visiting prisons, and putting down riots.

He saw the assessing way Sophia glanced around his office, which had been furnished in a Spartan style. One wall was covered with maps, the other fitted with bookshelves. Only one picture adorned the room, a landscape of rocks and forest and stream, with gray hills rising in the distance. Ross had often stared at the landscape during times of calamity or tension, finding that the cool, quiet darkness of the painting never failed to soothe him.

Brusquely he resumed the interview. "Have you brought references, Miss Sydney?"

She shook her head. "I am afraid that my former employer will not recommend me."

"Why not?"

Finally her composure was disrupted, a wash of color spreading over her face. "For many years I have worked for a distant cousin. She allowed me to reside in her household after my parents died, despite the fact that she was not a woman of great means. In return for her charity, I was required to serve as a maid-of-all-work. I believe that Cousin Ernestine was pleased with my efforts, until..." Words seemed to clot in her throat, and sudden perspiration lent her skin a pearly shimmer.

Ross had heard every possible tale of disaster, evil, and human misery during his ten years as Chief Magistrate at Bow Street. Although he was not callous by any means, he had learned to put a certain emotional distance between himself and those who came to plea before him. But the sight of Sophia's anxiety filled him with the insane urge to comfort her, to pick her up and soothe her.Holy hell , he thought in grim surprise, struggling to master the unwanted surge of protectiveness.

"Go on, Miss Sydney," he said curtly.

She nodded and took a deep breath. "I did something very wrong. I-I took a lover. I never had before...but he was a guest at a great estate near the village...I met him while walking. I had never been courted by anyone like him. I fell in love with him, and we--" She stopped and averted her gaze, apparently unable to look at Ross any longer. "He promised to marry me, and I was foolish enough to believe him. When he tired of me, he abandoned me without a second thought. Of course, I realize now that it was ridiculous to think that a man of his station might have taken me to wife."

"He was an aristocrat?" Cannon asked.

She studied the shapes of her knees through the drape of her skirts. "Not precisely. He was--is--the youngest son of a noble family."

"His name?"

"I would prefer not to reveal it, sir. It is all in the past now. Suffice it to say that my cousin learned of the affair from the lady of the manor, who also revealed that my lover was married. Needless to say, there was a scandal, and Cousin Ernestine told me to leave." Sophia smoothed her gown in a nervous gesture, her palms running over the fabric that covered her lap. "I know that this is evidence of an immoral character. But I promise you that I am not easily given to...to dalliances. If you could manage to overlook my past--"

"Miss Sydney." Cannon waited until she could bring herself to look at him once more. "I would be a hypocrite if I condemned you for the affair. We have all made mistakes."

"Not you, surely."

That elicited a wry smile from him. "Especially me."

Her blue eyes were alert. "What kind of mistakes?"

The question amused him. He liked her fearlessness, as well as the layer of vulnerability beneath. "None that you need know about, Miss Sydney."

She smiled slowly. "Then I remain skeptical as to your having made any."

It was the kind of smile a woman might wear in the sultry aftermath of lovemaking. Very few women possessed such effortless sensuality, a natural warmth that made a man feel like a prize stallion on a stud farm. Dumbfounded, Ross concentrated on the surface of his desk. Unfortunately, that did nothing to dispel the lurid images that had flooded his brain. He wanted to reach across the desk and pull her on top of the slick mahogany and strip her naked. He wanted to kiss her breasts, stomach, thighs...to part the curls between her legs and bury his face in the tender salt-scented folds, and lick and suckle until she screamed in ecstasy. When he had made her ready for him again, he would unfasten his trousers and drive himself deep inside her, to thrust until his raging desire was satisfied. And then...

Infuriated by his lack of self-control, Ross drummed his fingers on the desk. He struggled to remember the thread of conversation. "Before we discuss my past," he said, "we had better attend to yours. Tell me, did a child result from this liaison?"

"No, sir."

"That is fortunate," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Is Shropshire your birthplace?" "No, sir. I was born, along with my younger brother, in a little town on the Severn. We..." Sophia paused, a shadow passing over her expression, and Ross sensed that the past held many painful memories for her. "We were orphaned when our parents drowned in a boating accident. I was not yet thirteen. My father was a viscount, but we had little land, and no funds to support it. There were no relatives able or willing to care for two virtually impoverished children. A few people in the village took turns looking after my brother and me, but I'm afraid..." She hesitated and spoke more cautiously. "My brother, John, and I were quite wild. We ran about the village committing acts of mischief until we were caught in a bit of thievery at the local bakeshop. It was then that I went to live with Cousin Ernestine."

"What became of your brother?"

She responded with a distant stare, her manner turning wooden. "He is dead now. The title is extinct, and the family lands are being held in abeyance, as there is no eligible male to inherit."

Being no stranger to grief, Ross was sensitive to it in others. He understood at once that whatever had happened to her brother, it had left a deep scar on her soul. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

She was rigid, seeming not to hear him.

After a long moment, Ross spoke gruffly. "If your father was a viscount, then you should be addressed as 'Lady Sophia.'"

His remark earned a faint, bitter smile. "I suppose so. However, it would be rather pretentious for me to insist on a courtesy title, wouldn't it? My days as 'Lady Sophia' are over. All I desire is to find suitable employment, and perhaps to make a new beginning."

Ross considered her closely. "Miss Sydney, I could not in good conscience hire a woman as my assistant. Among other things, you would be required to list the occupants of the prisoners' van bearing criminals to and from Newgate, compile reports of the Bow Street runners, and take depositions from the assortment of foul characters who parade daily through this building. Such tasks would be offensive to a woman's sensibilities."

"I wouldn't mind," she said with equanimity. "As I have already explained, I am neither sheltered nor innocent. I am not young, nor do I have a reputation or social standing to preserve. Many women work in hospitals, prisons, and charity wards, and they encounter all kinds of desperate and lawless people. I will survive just as they have."

"You cannot be my assistant," Ross said firmly. He raised a hand in a silencing gesture as she tried to interrupt. "However, my former housekeeper has just retired, and I would be willing to hire you as her replacement. That would be a far more suitable employment for you."

"I could take a hand in certain household matters," she conceded. "In addition to working as your assistant."

"You propose to do both?" In a gently sardonic tone, he asked, "Don't you think that might be too much work for one person to handle?"

"People say that you do the work of six men," she shot back. "If that is true, I could certainly manage to do the work of two."

"I am not offering you two positions. I am offering only one--that of housekeeper." Strangely, his authoritative statement made her smile. There was no mistaking the challenge in her eyes, but it was a friendly provocation, as if she knew somehow that he was not about to let her walk away. "No, thank you," she said. "I'd have what I want or nothing at all."

Ross's face hardened into the expression that cowed even the most seasoned Bow Street runners. "Miss Sydney, it is clear that you don't understand the dangers you would be exposed to. An attractive woman has no business mingling with criminals whose behavior ranges from mischief-making to depravities I could not begin to describe."

She seemed unruffled at the prospect. "I would be surrounded by more than a hundred law enforcement officers, including constables, horse patrols, and a half-dozen or so Bow Street runners. I daresay I would be safer working here than I would be shopping at Regent Street."

"Miss Sydney--"

"Sir Ross," she interrupted, standing and bracing her hands on his desk. Her high-necked dress revealed nothing as she leaned toward him. However, if she had been wearing a low decolletage, her breasts would have been presented to him like two succulent apples on a tray. Stimulated unbearably by the thought, Ross forced himself to focus on her face. Her lips curled in a faint smile. "You have nothing to lose by letting me try," she pointed out. "Give me a month to prove my worth."

Ross stared at her intently. There was something manufactured about her display of charm. She was trying to manipulate him into giving her something she wanted--and she was succeeding. But why in God's name did she want to work for him? He realized suddenly that he could not let her go without discovering her motives.

"If I fail to please you," she added, "you can always hire someone else."

Ross was known for being a supremely rational man. It would be impractical for him to hire this woman. Stupid, even. He knew exactly what the others at Bow Street would make of it. They would assume that he had hired her because of her sexual appeal. The uncomfortable truth was, they would be right. It had been a long time since he had been so strongly attracted to a woman. He wanted to keep her here, to enjoy her beauty and intelligence, and to discover if she returned his interest. His mind weighed the scruples of such a decision, but his thoughts were eclipsed by male urges that refused to be quelled.

And for the first time in his magisterial career, he ignored reason in favor of desire.

Scowling, he picked up a haphazard pile of papers and handed them to her. "Are you familiar with the Hue and Cry ?"

Cautiously she accepted the ungainly stack. "I believe it is a weekly publication of police news?"

He nodded. "It contains descriptions of offenders at large and details of their crimes. It is one of Bow Street's most effective tools in apprehending criminals, particularly the ones who come from counties outside my jurisdiction. That stack you're holding has notices from mayors and magistrates all across England."

Sophia scanned the top few notes and read aloud."' Arthur Clewen, by trade a blacksmith, about five feet ten inches high, with dark curled hair, effeminate voice, large nose, charged with fraud in Chichester...Mary Thompson, alias Hobbes, alias Chiswit, a tall girl thin of frame, with light straight hair, charged with stabbing murder in Wolverhampton...' "

"Those notes must be compiled and copied every week," Ross said tersely. "It's tedious, and I have far more pressing matters to attend to. From now on, that will be one of your responsibilities." He pointed to a small table in the corner, every available inch of its scarred surface covered with books, files, and correspondence. "You may work there. You'll have to share my office, as there is no room for you elsewhere. As things stand, I'm away on investigations much of the time."

"You will hire me, then," she said, her voice rich with satisfaction. "Thank you, Sir Ross."

He slanted her an ironic glance. "If I find that you are not suited for the position, you will accept my decision without protest."

"Yes, sir."

"One more thing. You will not be required to go to the prisoners' van each morning. Vickery will do it."

"But you said that it was part of your assistant's responsibility, and I--"

"Are you arguing with me, Miss Sydney?"

She closed her mouth abruptly. "No, Sir Ross."

He gave her a brief nod. "TheHue and Cry must be finished by two o'clock. After you're done, go to Bow Street number four and find a dark-haired lad named Ernest. Tell him where your possessions are--he will fetch them after he delivers theHue and Cry to the printer."

"There is no need to make him gather my things," Sophia protested. "I will go to the lodging house by myself at a more convenient time."

"You are not to walk anywhere in London alone. From now on, you are under my protection. If you wish to go somewhere, you will be accompanied by Ernest or one of the runners."

She didn't like that--he saw the resentful flicker in her eyes. But she did not argue. Ross continued in a businesslike manner. "You'll have the rest of the day to make yourself familiar with the public office and private residence. Later I will introduce you to my colleagues as they appear for their court sessions."

"Will I also be introduced to the Bow Street runners?"

"I doubt you will be able to avoid them for long," Ross said dryly. The thought of the runners' reaction to his female assistant caused his mouth to tighten. He wondered if that was Sophia's motive for working here. Women all over England had made the runners objects of romantic fantasy. Their imaginings were fueled by the ha'penny novels that portrayed the runners as heroic men of action. It was possible that Sophia wished to attract one of them. If so, she would not have to try hard. The runners were a randy lot, and all but one of them were unmarried.

"By the way, I do not condone any romantic involvements at Bow Street," Ross said. "The runners, the constables, and the clerks are all unavailable to you. Naturally I will offer no objections if you wish to carry on with someoneoutside the public office."

"What about you?" she startled him by asking softly. "Are you unavailable as well?" Perplexed, hungering, Ross wondered what kind of game she was trying to play. He kept his expression blank as he replied, "Naturally."

She smiled slightly as she went to the small, overladen table.

In less than an hour, Sophia had efficiently arranged and copied the notes in a neat hand that would delight the printer to no end. She was so quiet and economical in her movements that Ross would have forgotten she was there, except that her scent filtered through the air. It was a tantalizing distraction that he could not dismiss. Breathing deeply, he tried to identify the fragrance. He detected tea and vanilla, blended with the elixir of warm female skin. Stealing glances at her delicate profile, he was fascinated by the way the light moved over her hair. She had small ears, a sharply defined chin, a soft snippet of a nose, and eyelashes that cast spiky shadows on her cheeks.

Absorbed in her task, Sophia bent over a page and wrote carefully. Ross could not help but imagine how those adept hands might feel on his body, if they would be warm or cool. Would she touch a man with hesitancy or boldness? Her exterior was delicate, subdued, but there were hints of something provocative beneath...an intimation that she could be unmoored by sexuality, if only a man could reach deep enough inside her.

The conjecture caused Ross's blood to stir faster. He damned himself for being so drawn to her. The force of his unspent passion seemed to fill the room. How strange that the past months, years, of celibacy had been so tolerable until now. Suddenly it had become unbearable, his accumulated hunger for a woman's soft flesh, his need for a tender sheath clamped around his cock, a sweet, responsive mouth returning his kisses...

Just as his desire reached an excruciating pitch, Sophia approached his desk with the copies. "Is this how you like it to be done?" she asked.

He scanned them quickly, hardly seeing the neat lines of script. With a cursory nod, he handed them back to her.

"I'll give them to Ernest, then," she said, her gown rustling softly as she left. The door closed with a quiet click, affording him some much-needed privacy. Releasing an explosive breath, Ross went to the chair where Sophia had sat, his fingers coasting over its back and arms. Driven by primal urges, he hunted for any trace of warmth her hands might have left on the wood. He breathed deeply, seeking to absorb a lingering hint of her fragrance.

Yes, he thought with purely masculine agitation, he had been celibate for too long.

Although he was often tormented by his physical needs, Ross had too much respect for women to hire a prostitute. He had become well acquainted with the profession from the perspective of the magisterial bench, and he would not take advantage of such a woman. Moreover, the transaction would be a mockery of what he had shared with his wife.

He had considered the idea of marrying again, but he had not yet found a woman who seemed remotely suitable. The wife of a police magistrate would have to be strong and independent. And she would have to fit easily into the social circles his family frequented, as well as the dark world of Bow Street. Most of all, she would have to be satisfied with his friendship, not his love. He would not allow himself to fall in love again, not as he had with Eleanor. The pain of losing her had been too great, and his heart had been ripped in half when she died. He only wished that the need for sex could be dismissed as easily as the need for love.

For decades, Bow Street No. 4 had served as a private residence, public office, and court. However, when Sir Ross Cannon had been appointed Chief Magistrate ten years earlier, he had expanded his powers and jurisdictions until it had been necessary to purchase the adjacent building. Now No. 4 served primarily as Sir Ross's private home, while No. 3 contained offices, courtrooms, records rooms, and an underground strong room where prisoners were held and interrogated.

Sophia quickly made herself familiar with the layout of No. 4 as she searched for the errand boy. She located Ernest in the belowstairs kitchen as he ate a lunch of bread and cheese at a large wooden table. The dark-haired, gangly-limbed boy was afflicted with wild blushes as Sophia introduced herself. After she gave him theHue and Cry , and asked him to retrieve her belongings from a nearby lodging house, the boy scampered away like a terrier after a rat.

Relieved to find herself alone, Sophia wandered into the dry larder. It was fitted with slate shelves that held, among other things, a round of cheese, a pot of butter, a jug of milk, and cuts of meat. The little room was shadowy and dark, silent except for the steady drip of water in the adjoining wet larder. Suddenly overcome with the tension that had accumulated inside her all afternoon, Sophia felt herself begin to tremble and shiver until her teeth chattered violently. Hot tears gushed from her eyes, and she pressed the length of her sleeve hard against the aching sockets.

Dear God, how she hated him.

It had taken all her strength and will to sit in that cluttered office" with Sir Ross, appearing serene while her blood boiled with loathing. She had hidden her antipathy well; she thought she had even made him want her. His eyes had flickered with a reluctant attraction that he couldn't quite hide. That was good; it was what she had hoped for. Because she wanted to do something worse than kill Sir Ross Cannon. She intended to ruin him in every way, to make him suffer until death would be preferable. And somehow fate seemed to be accommodating her plan.

From the moment Sophia had seen the advertisement in theTimes , that an assistant was wanted at the Bow Street public office, a plan had sprung fully formed into her mind. She would obtain the job at Bow Street and thereby gain access to records and files. Eventually she would find what she needed to destroy Sir Ross's reputation and force him to resign.

There were rumors of corruption surrounding the runners and their activities--reports of illegal raids, brutality, and intimidation, not to mention acting outside their described jurisdictions. Everyone knew that Sir Ross and his "people," as he termed them, were a law unto themselves. Once an already suspicious public was given solid proof of their misconduct, the paragon known as Sir Ross Cannon would be ruined beyond redemption. Sophia would uncover whatever information was necessary to bring about his downfall.

But that wasn't enough. She wanted the betrayal to be deeper, more painful than that. She was going to seduce the so-called Monk of Bow Street and make him fall in love with her. And then she would bring his world down around his ears.

The scalding tears abated, and Sophia turned to rest her forehead against a cool edge of slate, sighing shakily. One thought sustained her: Sir Ross was going to pay for taking away the last person on earth who had loved her. Her brother, John, whose remains were buried in a mass grave, mingling with the rotting skeletons of thieves and murderers. Regaining her self-control, Sophia contemplated what she had learned of Sir Ross so far. He was not at all what she had expected. She had thought he would be a pompous, heavyset man, jowly and vain and corrupt. She had not wanted him to be attractive.

But Sir Rosswas handsome, much as she hated to admit it. He was a man in his prime, tall and big-framed and a bit too lean. His features were strong and austere, with straight black brows shadowing the most extraordinary pair of eyes she had ever seen. They were light gray, so bright that it seemed as if the white-hot energy of lightning had been trapped inside the black-rimmed irises. He possessed a quality that had unnerved her, a tremendous volatility burning beneath his remote surface. And he wore his authority comfortably, a man who could make decisions and live with them no matter what the outcome.

Hearing the sounds of someone entering the kitchen from the door that led to the street above, Sophia ventured from the larder. She saw a woman not much older than she, skinny and dark-haired, with bad teeth. But the woman's smile was genuine, and she was tidy and well kept, her apron washed and pressed. The cook-maid, Sophia surmised, giving her a friendly smile.

"Hullo," the woman said shyly, bobbing in a curtsy. "May I help you, miss?"

"I am Miss Sydney, Sir Ross's new assistant."

"Assistant," the woman repeated in confusion. "But you're not a man."

"No, indeed," Sophia said evenly, surveying the kitchen.

"I'm the cook-maid, Eliza," the woman offered, staring at her with wide eyes. "There's another maid, Lucie, and an errand boy..."

"Ernest? Yes, I've already met him."

Daylight shone through the casement windows, revealing the kitchen to be a small but well-fitted room with a stone-flagged floor. A brick-built stove with a cast-iron top and stone supports was mounted against one wall. Four or five pots could be heated at different temperatures at the same time on such a stove. An iron cylindrical roaster was set horizontally in the wall, the door flush with the brickwork. The design was so clever and modern that Sophia could not help exclaiming in admiration.

"Oh, it must be wonderful to cook in here!"

Eliza made a face. "I can manage plain cooking, as my ma taught me. And I don't mind going to market or tidying up. But I don't like standing at the stove over pots and pans--it never seems to come out right."

"Perhaps I could help," Sophia said. "I like to cook."

Eliza brightened at the information. "That would be lovely, miss!"

Sophia surveyed the kitchen dresser with its assortment of pots, pans, jugs, and utensils. A row of tarnished copper molds hung from hooks on the side--they clearly needed a good scrubbing. There were other items that needed attention as well. The pudding-cloths and jelly bags stacked on a dresser shelf were stained and required soaking. The sieves appeared to be dirty, and an unpleasant smell emanated from the drain-holes in the sink, which had to be scrubbed with large handfuls of soda. "We all eat in the kitchen--master, servants, and constables alike," Eliza said, indicating the wooden table that dwarfed much of the room. "There is no proper dining hall. Sir Ross takes his meals here or in his office."

Sophia gazed at a dresser shelf that contained spices, tea, and a sack of coffee berries. She strove to sound detached as she asked, "Is Sir Ross a good master?"

"Oh, yes, miss!" the cook-maid said at once. "Though he can be a bit odd at times."

"In what way?"

"Sir Ross will work for days without a proper meal. Sometimes he will even sleep at his desk, rather than go to his own bed for a decent night's rest."

"Why does he work so hard?"

"No one knows the answer to that, p'rhaps not even Sir Ross himself. They say he was different before his wife passed on. She died in childbirth, and since then Sir Ross has been..." Eliza paused to search for an appropriate word.

"Distant?" Sophia suggested.

"Aye, distant and cold-natured. He tolerates no weakness in himself, and takes no interest in anything other than his duties."

"Perhaps he will marry again someday."

Eliza shrugged and smiled. "Gor, there are many fine ladies who would have him! They come to his office to ask him to help with their charities, or to complain about pickpockets and such. But it's plain they hope to catch his eye. And the less interest he shows, the more they pursue him."

"Sir Ross is sometimes called the Monk of Bow Street," Sophia murmured. "Does that mean he never..." She paused as a blush climbed her cheeks.

"Only he knows for certain," Eliza said thoughtfully."'Twould be a pity, wouldn't it? A waste of a good, healthy man." Her crooked teeth flashed in a grin, and she winked at Sophia. "But I think someday the right woman will know how to tempt him, don't you?"

Yes, Sophia thought with a swirl of satisfaction. She would be the one to end Sir Ross's monkish ways. She would win his trust, perhaps even his love...and she would use it to destroy him.

As news traveled fast on Bow Street, Ross was unsurprised when a knock came on the door not a quarter hour after Sophia had left. One of the assistant magistrates, Sir Grant Morgan, entered the office. "Good morning, Cannon," Grant Morgan said, his green eyes alight with good humor. No one could doubt that Morgan was enjoying his life as a newlywed. The other runners were both envious and entertained by the fact that the formerly stoic Morgan was so openly in love with his small, red-haired wife.

At a height of nearly six and a half feet, Grant Morgan was the only man Ross had to physically look up to. An orphan who had once worked at a Covent Garden fishmonger's stall, Morgan had enlisted in the foot patrol at age eighteen and been rapidly promoted through the ranks until Ross had selected him to join the elite force of a half-dozen runners. Recently he had been appointed to serve as assistant magistrate. Morgan was a good man, steady and intelligent, and one of the few people in the world whom Ross trusted.

Pulling the visitor's chair up to the desk, Morgan lowered his gigantic frame onto the leather seat. He gave Ross a speculative stare. "I caught a glimpse of Miss Sydney," he remarked. "Vickery told me that she is your new assistant. Naturally I replied that he must have been mistaken."

"Why?"

"Because hiring a woman for such a position would be impractical. Furthermore, enlisting a woman as comely as Miss Sydney to work at Bow Street would be damned foolish. And since I have never known you to be impractical or foolish, I told Vickery that he was wrong."

"He's right," Ross muttered.

Leaning to the side, Morgan rested his chin in the bracket of his thumb and forefinger and contemplated the Chief Magistrate speculatively. "She's going to be a clerk and file-keeper? And take depositions from footpads and highwaymen and buttock-and-file whores and--"

"Yes," Ross snapped.

Morgan's thick brows climbed halfway up his forehead. "To point out the obvious, every man who passes through this place--runners not excepted--is going to be on her like flies on a honeypot. She won't be able to get a damned thing done. Miss Sydney is trouble, and you know it." He paused and remarked idly, "What interests me is why you chose to hire her anyway."

"It's none of your business. Miss Sydney ismy employee. I'll hire anyone I damn well want to, and the men had better leave her alone or answer to me."

Morgan stared at him in an assessing way that Ross didn't like. "My pardon," he said softly. "You seem to be rather touchy on the subject."

"I'm not touchy, dammit!"

Morgan responded with a supremely annoying grin. "I believe this is the first time I've ever heard you swear, Cannon."

Too late, Ross understood the source of Morgan's amusement. Somehow his normally emotionless facade had cracked. He fought to mask his irritation, drumming his fingers on the desk in an impatient staccato.

Morgan watched his struggle with a lingering grin. Apparently he could not resist making one more comment. "Well, there is one point that no one will dispute--she makes a prettier clerk than Vickery."

Ross pinned him with a forbidding stare. "Morgan, the next time I advertise for an employee, I will make certain to hire some long-toothed old crone in the hopes of pleasing you. Now, may we turn the discussion to some other matter...perhaps even something relating to work?"

"By all means," Morgan said agreeably. "Actually, I came to give you the latest report on Nick Gentry." Ross's eyes narrowed at the news. Of all the criminals he desired to be caught, tried, and hanged, Gentry was easily the first on the list. He was the opposite of everything Ross sought to uphold.

Taking advantage of the law that gave rewards to any citizen who apprehended a highwayman, burglar, or deserter, Nick Gentry and his men had established an office in London and set themselves up as professional thief-takers. When Gentry caught a highwayman, he received not only a commission upon conviction, but also the highwayman's horse, arms, and money. If he recovered stolen goods, he not only charged a fee, he also took a percentage of the property's value. When Gentry and his men could not gather enough evidence against a particular felon, they planted or manufactured some. They also seduced young boys into crime, purely for the purpose of arresting them later and collecting the bounties.

Gentry was regarded with both admiration and fear in the underworld, where he was the undisputed king. His office had become the rendezvous for every criminal of note in England. Gentry was guilty of all kinds of corruption, including fraud, bribery, thievery, and even murder. Most maddening of all, the man was regarded by much of London as some sort of public benefactor. He cut a dashing figure in his fine clothes, riding his big black horse through the alleys and thoroughfares of London. Small boys dreamed of growing up to be like him. Women of high or low birth were excited by his intriguing appearance.

"I'd like to see that bastard dance in the wind," Ross muttered. "Tell me what you have."

"We have witness accounts that Gentry arranged for the escape of three of his men from Newgate. The clerk has already taken two depositions."

Ross went very still, in the manner of a predator catching scent of its most desired prey. "Bring him in for questioning," he said. "And do it quickly, before he goes to ground."

Morgan nodded, knowing that if Gentry caught wind of danger and decided to go into hiding, he would be impossible to locate. "I assume you'll want to question him yourself?"

Ross nodded. Ordinarily he would have left such matters in Morgan's capable hands, but not when Nick Gentry was involved. Gentry was his personal adversary, and Ross had devoted a great deal of effort to bringing the wily thief-taker down.

"Very well, sir." Morgan unfolded his long frame from the chair and stood. "I'll have Gentry taken into custody as soon as he is located. I'll dispatch Sayer and Gee immediately." He paused, and a wry smile softened the hard angles of his face. "That is, if they are not too busy ogling your assistant."

Ross suppressed a biting reply with great difficulty, his normally controlled temper igniting at the idea of Sophia Sydney being harassed by his own men. "Do something for me, Morgan," he said through tight lips. "Make it known that if any of my runners or any member of the foot or horse patrol bothers Miss Sydney, they will regret it."

"Yes, sir." Morgan turned to leave, but not before Ross saw the hint of a smile on his lips.

"What is so bloody amusing?"

Morgan replied in a bland tone. "I was merely reflecting, sir, that you may come to regret not hiring a long-toothed old crone."

After partaking of an evening meal of warmed-over mutton stew, Sophia unpacked her belongings in the upstairs room that had been given to her. The room was tiny, and it had been furnished simply. However, it was clean, and the bed seemed comfortable, and there was another advantage that Sophia liked. Her window faced the west side of Bow Street No. 3, allowing her to see directly into Cannon's office. The lamplight outlined the shape of his dark head and highlighted the hard edge of his profile as he turned toward his bookshelves. It was late, and he should have retired for the evening. At the very least, he should be enjoying a good supper instead of the unappetizing dish of mutton stew that Eliza had sent over.

Sophia changed into her night rail and returned to the window, watching as Cannon rubbed his face and bent diligently over his desk. She thought of all the things Eliza and Lucie had told her about the Chief Magistrate. With the typical servants' love of gossip, they had provided a great deal of information.

It seemed that Sir Ross's supporters, of which there were many, revered him for his compassion, whereas an equal number of critics denounced him for his sternness. He was the most powerful magistrate in England, even acting as an unofficial adviser to the government. He trained his runners with progressive new methods, applying scientific principles to law enforcement in a way that earned both admiration and mistrust from the public. Sophia had been entertained as Eliza and Lucie attempted to explain how the runners sometimes solved crimes by examining teeth, hair, bullets, and wounds. None of it made sense to her, but apparently Sir Ross's techniques had untangled mysteries as intricate as the Gordian knot.

The servants held Sir Ross in high regard, as did everyone else who worked at Bow Street. Sophia came to the unsettling realization that the magistrate was not the entirely evil person she had considered him to be. It did not change her resolve to avenge John's death, however. In fact, strict adherence to principle was probably what had led to the tragedy that had claimed her brother's life. No doubt Sir Ross lived by the letter of the law, putting principle above compassion, and legislation above mercy.

The thought caused Sophia's anger to flare violently. Who was Sir Ross, that he should decide who lived or died? Why was he fit to sit in judgment upon others? Was he so infallible, so wise and perfect? He probably thought he was, the arrogant bastard.

But she was perplexed by the memory of his easy forgiveness that morning, when she had confessed the story of her short-lived affair. Most people would have condemned her as a harlot and said that her dismissal was well deserved. She had expected Sir Ross to censure her. Instead he seemed understanding and kind, and had even admitted that he himself had made mistakes.

Troubled, she nudged the frayed muslin curtain aside to gain a better view of his office window.

As if he could somehow feel Sophia's gaze, Sir Ross turned and glanced directly at her. Although there was no lamp or candle burning in her room, the moonlight was sufficient to illuminate her. He could see that she was dressed only in the fragile night rail.

Being a gentleman, Sir Ross should have turned away immediately. But he stared at her intently, as if he were a hungry wolf and she were a rabbit that had ventured too far from the warren. Though Sophia's entire body burned with embarrassment, she lingered to give him a good look. Silently she counted the seconds: one...two...three. Then she moved aside slowly, drew the curtain shut, and raised her palms to her flaming face. She should be pleased that he had shown an interest in what she looked like in her nightclothes. Instead she was profoundly uneasy, almost frightened--as if her plan to seduce and destroy him might somehow end in her own downfall.