Lady Sophia's Lover

CHAPTER 2

Ross began the day as usual, performing his morning ablutions with economic speed and dressing in his usual attire of a dark coat and gray trousers. He tied his black silk cravat in a simple knot, and brushed his hair until it settled neatly into place. Giving a cursory glance in the looking glass beside the washstand, he saw that the smudges beneath his eyes were more pronounced than usual. He had not slept well the previous night. He had been occupied with thoughts of Sophia, his body teeming with the awareness that she was sleeping only a few rooms away.

It had been impossible to stop thinking about the moment when he had seen her at the window, her long hair streaming in ripples, her nightgown ghostly in the moonlight. Ross had been utterly seduced by the image, his blood coursing as he imagined what the female body beneath the gown might look like.

Scowling, Ross vowed that there would be no more nightly reveries concerning Sophia. No more fantasies, and certainly no more gazing at her window. From now on it would be work as usual.

Grimly determined, he went down to the kitchen, where he intended to fetch his first jug of coffee and carry it to his office. When that was done, he would take his daily walk through Covent Garden and the surrounding streets, much in the manner of a physician taking the pulse of a favorite patient. No matter how detailed the reports of the Bow Street runners were, there was nothing quite like seeing and hearing things for himself.

Ross took pleasure in the orderly progression of activities at Bow Street each day. Just after dawn, the bells of St. Paul's rang through Covent Garden and along the tranquil shop fronts and residences of Bow Street. The sounds of market carts caused shutters to snap open and curtains to be drawn, as did the cries of muffin sellers and newspaper boys. At seven o'clock, smells of hot bread and rolls floated from the baker's, and at eight, patrons would begin to drift through the opening doors of the coffeehouses. When nine o'clock arrived, people would gather at the Bow Street office, waiting for the clerks and officers to open the doors. At ten, the sitting magistrate--who happened to be Morgan today--would assume his place at court.

Everything as it should be, Ross thought with satisfaction.

As Ross entered the kitchen, he saw Ernest sitting at the scrubbed wooden table. The boy wolfed down a plate of breakfast as if it were the first decent meal he'd had in months. Sophia stood at the range with the scrawny cook-maid, apparently showing her how to prepare the morning's fare. "Turn them like this," Sophia was saying, expertly flipping a row of little cakes on a griddle pan. The kitchen atmosphere was especially fragrant today, spiced with frying bacon, coffee, and sizzling batter.

Sophia looked fresh and wholesome, the trim curves of her figure outlined by a white apron that covered her charcoal-gray dress. Her gleaming hair was pinned in a coil at the top of her head and tied with a blue ribbon. As she saw him standing in the doorway, a smile lit her sapphire eyes, and she was so dazzlingly pretty that Ross felt a painful jab low in his stomach.

"Good morning, Sir Ross," she said. "Will you have some breakfast?"

"No, thank you," he replied automatically. "Only a jug of coffee. I never..." He paused as the cook set a platter on the table. It was piled with steaming batter cakes sitting in a pool of blackberry sauce. He had a special fondness for blackberries. "Just one or two?" Sophia coaxed.

Abruptly it became less important that he adhere to his usual habits. Perhaps he could make time for a little breakfast, Ross reasoned. A five-minute delay would make no difference in his schedule.

He found himself seated at the table facing a plate heaped with cakes, crisp bacon, and coddled eggs. Sophia filled a mug with steaming black coffee, and smiled at him once more before resuming her place at the range with Eliza. Ross picked up his fork and stared at it as if he didn't quite know what to do with it.

"They're good, sir," Ernest ventured, stuffing his mouth so greedily that it seemed likely he would choke.

Ross took a bite of the fruit-soaked cake and washed it down with a swallow of hot coffee. As he continued to eat, he felt an unfamiliar sense of well-being. Good God, it had been a long time since he'd had anything other than Eliza's wretched concoctions.

For the next few minutes Ross ate until the platter of cakes was demolished. Sophia came now and then to refill his cup or offer more bacon. The cozy warmth of the kitchen and the sight of Sophia as she moved about the room caused a tide of unwilling pleasure inside him. Setting down his fork, Ross stood and regarded her without smiling. "I must go now. Thank you for the breakfast, Miss Sydney."

One last mug of coffee was pressed into his hands, and Sophia's dark blue eyes stared into his. "Will you spend the day in the office, sir?"

Ross shook his head, fascinated by the little wisps of hair that had stuck to her forehead. The heat of the stove had made her cheeks pink and glistening. He wanted to kiss, lick, taste her. "I will be out for most of the morning," he said, his voice raspy. "I am conducting an investigation--there was a murder in Russell Square last evening."

"Be careful."

It had been a long time since anyone had said that to him. Ross damned himself for feeling so easily unsettled...but there it was, that velvety tickle of pleasure he could not seem to elude. He nodded shortly, giving her a wary glance before leaving.

Sophia spent the first half of the day attending to a waist-high pile of papers, briefs, and correspondence that had been shoved into a corner of Sir Ross's office. As she filed the mass of information, she welcomed the opportunity to become familiar with the criminal records room, which was dusty and unkempt. It would take days, perhaps weeks, to organize the drawers of materials properly. While Sophia worked, she reflected on what she had learned of Sir Ross so far, including the stray comments she had heard from servants and clerks and runners. It seemed that the Chief Magistrate was an inhumanly self-controlled man who never swore or shouted or drank to excess. A few soft-voiced directions from him would make the fearsome runners hasten to obey. Sir Ross was admired by all who worked for him, but at the same time they delighted in jesting about his cold and methodical nature.

Sophia did not believe that he was cold. She perceived something beneath his austere facade, a powerfully contained sexuality that would be all-consuming if it were ever set free. Given the intensity of his nature, Sir Ross would not approach lovemaking in a casual way. It was too important, too rare for him; he would have to care deeply for his partner before he slept with her. If Sophia were to succeed in seducing him, she would have to earn his affection. But how did one go about making such a man fall in love? She suspected that he would respond to a woman who supplied the softness that was clearly missing in his life. After all, he was not some godlike being with limitless strength. He was a man, one who pushed himself too hard. For a man who carried so many burdens on his shoulders, it would be a relief to have someone take care ofhis needs.

Returning to Sir Ross's private office, Sophia used a rag to wipe the dust from the windowsill. She happened to see the object of her thoughts on the street below, as Sir Ross paused at the iron fence that fronted the building. He appeared to be speaking to a woman who had been waiting at the gate. The woman wore a brown shawl that covered her hair and shoulders, and Sophia remembered that Mr. Vickery had turned her away earlier in the day. The woman had wanted to see Sir Ross, and the clerk had told her to return tomorrow, since the Chief Magistrate was occupied with pressing matters.

However, Sir Ross opened the gate for the woman and walked with her to the entrance of Bow Street No. 3. Sophia was touched by his consideration for someone who was surely of a much lower class. She was ill-dressed and haggard, yet the Chief Magistrate gave her his arm as courteously as if she were a duchess.

When Sir Ross brought the woman into his office, Sophia noticed the hitch of a frown between his black brows. "Good afternoon, Miss Sydney," he said evenly, guiding his visitor to a chair. The woman was thin, middle-aged, and haggard in appearance, her eyes red from crying. "This is Miss Trimmer, who I understand was turned away by Vickery this morning."

"I believe Mr. Vickery was concerned that your schedule was already quite full," Sophia murmured.

"I can always make time when it is necessary." Sir Ross half sat, half leaned against his desk, his arms folded across his chest. He spoke in a gently encouraging tone that Sophia had not heard from him before. "You said that you fear for your sister's safety, Miss Trimmer. Pray tell me what has caused such concern."

The trembling spinster clutched the ends of her shawl and spoke in a choked voice. "My younger sister, Martha, is married to Mr. Jeremy Fowler." She paused, evidently overcome by emotion.

"Mr. Fowler's employment is...?" Sir Ross prompted inquiringly.

"He is an apothecary. They live above the shop at St. James's market. There is trouble between Mr. Fowler and Martha, and--" She stopped and twisted the knitted shawl in tight, frantic fists. "She did something a month ago that put him in a rage. And I haven't seen her since."

"She is missing from her home?"

"No, sir...Mr. Fowler keeps Martha locked in a room and won't let her out. She's been there almost four weeks. No one can go inside to see her...I think she has taken ill, and I've begged Mr. Fowler to let her go, but he won't, as he's still of a mind to punish her."

"Punish her for what?" Sir Ross asked quietly.

Red flags of shame crossed the woman's narrow cheeks. "I think Martha took up with another man. It was very bad of her, I know. But Martha is good at heart, and I'm certain she is sorry for what she did and wants Mr. Fowler's forgiveness." Miss Trimmer's eyes watered, and she blotted them with her shawl. "No one will help me free my poor sister, as they all say it's a matter between husband and wife. Mr. Fowler says he's only done this because he loves Martha so, and she hurt him so awfully. No one, not even the rest of the Trimmers, blames him for locking her away." Sir Ross's eyes were hard and icy. "I am always puzzled by this so-called love that causes men to brutalize their wives. In my opinion, a man who truly loves a woman would never intentionally harm her, no matter how great the betrayal." His gaze softened as he regarded the desperate woman before him. "I will send a runner to the Fowler residence immediately, Miss Trimmer."

"Oh, sir," she faltered, weeping in patent relief. "Thank you, and bless you a thousand times."

Sir Ross glanced at Sophia. "Do you know which men are available today, Miss Sydney?"

"Mr. Sayer and Mr. Ruthven," Sophia murmured, relieved that he intended to free the captive Martha. She would not have been surprised if he had declined to help, as it was commonly thought that husbands had the right to do whatever they liked with their wives.

"Tell Ruthven to come."

Sophia hastened to obey. She soon returned with Mr. Ruthven, a large, dark-haired runner with a rugged countenance and an aggressive disposition. His appetite for physical combat was well known, and few men were willing to provoke him. Unfortunately, his mind was not suited for the subtleties of investigative work, and therefore Sir Ross used him for tasks that were more physical than cerebral in nature.

"Go with Miss Trimmer to St. James's market," Sir Ross told the runner calmly. "She will show you to the rooms above Fowler's Apothecary Shop, where her sister has been imprisoned for well nigh a month. Do whatever is necessary to free her, and be mindful of the possibility that you will meet with some resistance from her husband."

Realizing that he was being called upon to intervene in a marital dispute, the runner scowled slightly. "Sir, I was just on my way to the Tothill Bank--there was a robbery there, and I--"

"You'll have time to earn your private commissions later," Sir Ross said. "This is more important."

"Yes, sir." Clearly annoyed, Ruthven turned to leave.

"Ruthven," Sir Ross murmured, "what if it wereyour sister who had been locked in a room for a month?"

The runner considered his words, becoming a bit shamefaced. "I will take care of it immediately, Sir Ross."

"Good," the magistrate said brusquely. "And, Ruthven, after you free Mrs. Fowler, I want to question her husband."

"Shall I bring him directly to the strong room, sir?"

"No, take him to Newgate. He can wait there and contemplate his actions for a while before I talk to him."

As the runner escorted Miss Trimmer from the office, Sophia approached Sir Ross and regarded him thoughtfully. He remained in his half-seated position on the desk, which brought their faces nearly level. His expression was brooding, deep brackets carved on either side of his lips. Although Sophia had heard of the Chief Magistrate's well-known compassion for women and children, she was surprised by his willingness to interfere in a conflict between husband and wife. A wife was legally considered to be a man's property, and he could do as he pleased with her, short of actual murder. "That was very kind of you," she said.

The frown remained on Sir Ross's face. "I'd like to make Fowler suffer in the same way his wife has. I can only keep him in Newgate for three days--not nearly long enough."

Sophia was in complete agreement, but she could not resist playing the devil's advocate. "Some would say that Mrs. Fowler deserved such punishment for sleeping with another man," she pointed out.

"Regardless of her behavior, her husband had no right to retaliate in such a manner."

"What wouldyour response be if your wife betrayed you with someone else?"

It was apparent that the question surprised the magistrate. In one abrupt moment Sophia had turned the conversation into something personal. Sir Ross stared at her steadily, sudden tension causing his shoulder muscles to strain tightly against his coat. "I don't know," he admitted. "My wife was not the kind of woman who would have succumbed to that particular temptation. The issue was never a concern for me."

"What if you married again?" Sophia asked, held prisoner by his vivid silver gaze. "Wouldn't you worry about your wife's fidelity?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I would keep her so busy in my bed that she would have neither the time nor the inclination to seek another man's company."

The words caused an odd quiver to shoot through Sophia's belly. It was an admission of nothing less than an all-consuming sexual appetite. It confirmed everything she had learned about him so far. Sir Ross was not a man to do anything by half measures. Before she could stop herself, Sophia imagined what it might be like to lie tangled with him in intimacy, his mouth at her breasts, his hands moving gently over her body. Her face flamed with a mixture of embarrassment and awareness.

"Forgive me," he said softly. "I should not have spoken so frankly."

Another surprise--Sophia had never encountered a man from any walk of life who would lower himself to apologize to an employee, much less to a female one. "It was my fault," she managed to say. "I should not have asked such personal questions. I don't know why I did."

"Don't you?" His gaze snared hers again, and the hot flicker in his eyes made it difficult for her to breathe.

Sophia had been trying to discover more about his character and the workings of his heart. It was all for the purpose of manipulation, of course. All part of her quest to make him fall in love with her. Unfortunately, she was finding it difficult to ignore a growing attraction to the man she planned to hurt. She wanted to remain cool and uninvolved when they finally shared a bed. However, there were so many seductive qualities about him: his intelligence, his compassion for vulnerable creatures, the raw need beneath his self-controlled facade. Just as she felt a reluctant softening in her heart toward him, she thought of her dead brother, and her determination burned with new vigor. John must be avenged, or else his life would be robbed of any meaning at all. To let go of the past meant that she had failed John, and that was something she could not do.

After a moment of calculation, she admitted carefully, "I suppose I am curious about you. You rarely talk about yourself, or of your past."

"There is little in my past that would interest you," he assured her. "I am an ordinary man from an equally ordinary family."

The statement should have reeked of false humility.

After all, Sir Ross was a man of remarkable accomplishments and abilities. Surely he was aware of his own achievements, his keen mind, his good looks, his sterling reputation. However, Sophia realized that he did not consider himself superior to any other man. He demanded so much of himself that he could never live up to his own impossible standards.

"You are not ordinary," she half whispered. "You are fascinating."

There was no doubt that Sir Ross was often approached by women who had a personal interest in him. As a handsome widower with deep pockets and considerable social and political influence, he was probably the most eligible man in London. Yet Sophia's bold statement had clearly caught him off guard. He gave her a baffled stare, seeming unable to form a reply.

Silence weighted the air. Finally Sophia spoke, trying to sound brisk. "I will see about supper. Will you eat in the kitchen or here?"

Sir Ross focused on his desk with inordinate attention. "Send a tray up here. I have more to do tonight."

"You should sleep," she said. "You work far too much."

He picked up a letter and broke the seal. "Good night, Miss Sydney," he murmured, his gaze falling on the page.

Sophia left the office and wandered through the hallway with a frown. Why should she care if he refused to get the rest he needed? Let him work himself into an early grave, she thought. It hardly mattered to her if he ruined his health, the stubborn ox! But the irritation stayed with her as she recalled the weary smudges beneath his eyes. She reasoned that her concern stemmed from her desire for revenge. After all, one could hardly seduce a man when he was exhausted and half starved.

On the days that Ross served as sitting magistrate, Sophia brought his lunch plate to the office after early court sessions were finished. While he ate at his desk, she would straighten his papers and dust his shelves and carry reports to the criminal records room. However, he was not one to take regular meals, often regarding food as an unwelcome interruption to his work.

The first time that Ross had refused lunch, informing Sophia that he was too busy to eat, she had offered the plate to Vickery, who was copying a runner's report.

"Vickery is busy also," Ross said shortly. "You may take the plate away." "Yes, sir," Sophia replied, seeming not at all perturbed. "Perhaps later--"

"Iam a bit hungry," the clerk interrupted, staring at the covered plate with stark longing. A stocky man with a hearty appetite, Vickery did not like to miss a meal. "That smells delicious, Miss Sydney...may I ask what it is?"

"Marjoram sausage and potatoes. And green peas in cream."

Ross's appetite kindled at the savory fragrance that wafted from the plate. Lately Sophia had taken a strong hand in the kitchen, showing the inept cook-maid how to prepare edible meals. She paid close attention to his likes and dislikes, observing that he preferred well-seasoned food and had an incurable sweet tooth. In the past several days Ross had succumbed to the temptation of crisp-crusted charlotte pudding mounded high with orange filling...plum cake rich with molasses and currants...sugared apples wedged between thick layers of dough. Not surprisingly, he had begun to put on weight. The hollows of his cheeks had filled out, and his clothes no longer hung in loose folds--all of which would doubtless please his mother, who had often worried over his leanness.

Vickery closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Green peas in cream...my mother used to make them that way. Tell me, Miss Sydney, did you add a pinch of nutmeg as she did?"

"Why, yes--" Sophia began.

"Give him the tray," Ross growled. "It's obvious that I won't have a moment's peace otherwise."

Sophia sent him a vaguely apologetic smile as she obeyed.

Vickery accepted the lunch tray and unfolded the cloth napkin with obvious delight. Beaming, he called after her when she left, "Thank you, Miss Sydney!"

While Ross signed warrants, he was irritably aware of Vickery's lip-smacking and moans of enjoyment as he devoured the lunch. "Do you have to make so much noise?" Ross finally asked, looking up from his desk with a scowl.

Vickery stuffed his mouth with another large spoonful of peas. "Forgive me, sir. But this is a meal fit for a king. The next time you wish to forgo your lunch, sir, I will gladly take it in your stead."

There would not be a next time, Ross had vowed silently, annoyed beyond bearing to see someone else enjoyinghis meal. From then on, lunch in his office became a sacred ritual, and no one dared to interfere.

Sophia's influence soon extended to more personal details of his life. She made certain that the ewer of water for his morning shave was always steaming hot, and she added glycerine to his shaving soap to soften his obstinate beard. Observing that his boots and shoes needed attention, she mixed her own recipe for blacking and frequently nagged Ernest to keep Ross's footwear polished.

One morning, having discovered that most of his cravats had disappeared from the top drawer of his gentleman's chest, Ross went to the kitchen in his shirtsleeves. He found Sophia at the table, making notes in a little stitched-together book. Noticing that he was not wearing his coat or waistcoat, she gave him a swift but thorough glance that went from head to toe. At this sign of discreet feminine interest, Ross suddenly had trouble remembering why he had come downstairs in the first place. "Miss Sydney--" he began gruffly.

"Your cravats," she said with a snap of her slender fingers, evidently recalling that she had removed them from his chest. "I washed and pressed them yesterday, but I forgot to have them returned to your room. I will send Lucie up with them shortly."

"Thank you," Ross said, distracted by a silky lock of golden hair that had slid loose from her topknot. He was almost overcome by the temptation to reach out and wind the soft strands around his finger.

"Before you return to your room, sir, you should be aware that some of your cravats are gone."

"Gone?" he repeated with an inquiring frown.

"I sold them to the ragman." An impudent smile danced on her lips as she continued, silently daring him to protest. "Several of them were frayed and worn. A man in your position couldn't possibly be seen in them. So you will have to purchase new ones."

"I see." Thoroughly engaged by her impertinence, Ross leaned over her and placed one hand on the top of the chair where she sat. Although he did not touch her, she was completely trapped. "Well, Miss Sydney, since you have taken it upon yourself to dispose of my cravats, I think you should be the one to replace them. Ernest will accompany you to Bond Street this afternoon, and you can purchase the new ones on my credit. I will leave the selection to your taste."

Her head tilted back so she could meet his gaze, and her eyes sparkled with anticipation at the thought of a shopping expedition. "With pleasure, sir."

As Ross stared into Sophia's upturned face, he was greatly puzzled. It had been a long time since anyone had paid such close attention to such trivial matters as his cravats and the temperature of his shaving water. But part of him relished it...the almost wifely attentiveness on which he was becoming far too dependent. As with all things he did not understand, Ross examined Sophia's possible motives. He could not come up with a single reason that she would wish to pamper him.

Sophia's thick lashes lowered as she glanced once more to where his shirt revealed his bare throat. Her breath quickened slightly, betraying her awareness of him. He thought of sliding his hand behind her neck, holding her steady as he bent to capture her mouth. But it had been a long time since he had made such an advance to a woman, and he was not completely certain that she would welcome his attentions.

"Miss Sydney," he murmured, staring into the soft sapphire depths of her eyes, "the next time you dispose of my clothing, you had better give me advance warning." A roguish smile tugged at his lips as he leaned a fraction closer and added, "I would hate to come down here without my trousers."

To Ross's chagrin, he was not the only man at Bow Street to appreciate Sophia's considerable charms. As Morgan had predicted, the runners were after her like a pack of frolicsome wolves, sniffing and nipping at her heels. Before reporting to him at nine each morning, they would wait at the kitchen door for leftover scraps from breakfast. They would tease and flirt with her, and spin exaggerated tales of their own accomplishments.

Discovering that Sophia was willing to treat minor wounds, the men began to invent aches and pains that required her attention. After learning that she had bound at least three hairy sprained ankles and administered two poultices and wrapped a sore throat in the course of a single week, Ross lost his temper. "You tell the runners," he snapped at Vickery, "that if they are becoming so damned clumsy and sickly of late, they can see a bloody sawbones! I am forbidding Miss Sydney to treat any more injuries, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." Vickery stared at him with obvious amazement. "I've never seen you in a temper before, Sir Ross."

"I'm not in a temper!"

"You are shouting and cursing," Vickery pointed out reasonably. "If that isn't a temper, what is?"

Ross struggled to emerge from the red haze that had surrounded him. With great effort, he modulated his tone. "I raised my voice merely for the purpose of being emphatic," he said through his teeth. "My point is, the runners are not going to fake injuries and illness as an excuse to have Miss Sydney doctor them. She has enough responsibility as it is--I won't have her plagued by the pack of rutting idiots who work for me."

"Yes, sir," Vickery replied, averting his face, but not before Ross saw the twitch of a perceptive smile at his lips.

As word of Bow Street's pretty new employee spread among the patrols, Sophia was besieged by eager constables. She treated them all with the same friendly politeness. Ross sensed that she was guarding herself and her heart very carefully. After the wretched way she had been treated by her lover, any man would have an uphill battle to gain her trust.

Ross was increasingly curious about the man who had betrayed Sophia--what he had looked like, and what it was about him that had attracted her. Unable to help himself, Ross finally asked Eliza if Sophia had confided anything about her erstwhile lover. It was Sophia's day off, and she had taken Ernest on an outing to Bond Street. Bow Street seemed strangely empty without her, and though the day was only half over, Ross found himself watching the clock impatiently.

A knowing smile crossed the cook-maid's face at his question.

"If Sophia did say anything about him, Sir Ross, it was told in confidence. Besides, you lectured me just last month about my gossiping ways, and now I've made a pledge to reform myself."

Ross gave her a hard, level stare. "Eliza, why is it that now, when I'm finally interested in something you have to gossip about, you've decided to reform?"

She laughed, her crooked teeth displayed like a basket of gaming chips. "I'll tell you what she has said about him--if you will tell me why you want to know."

Ross kept his face expressionless. "I was merely asking out of a polite concern for her well-being."

Eliza snorted with skeptical amusement. "I'll tell you, sir, but you mustn't let on, or Miss Sophia will have me done to a turn. His name was Anthony. She said he was young and handsome, with fair hair. She likes fair-haired men, you see."

Ross received the information with a slight frown. Goon. "They met while Miss Sophia was out on a walk and he was riding through the woods. He charmed her...quoting poetry and such."

Ross grunted in displeasure. The image of Sophia in another man's arms--a fair-haired, poetry-quoting one--chafed like new leather against a blister. "Unfortunately, he forgot to mention that he had a wife."

"Yes. The coward simply left her after he'd taken his pleasure--he never bothered to tell her about his wife. Miss Sophia says she will never love again."

"She'll marry someday," Ross replied cynically. "It is only a matter of time."

"Yes, Miss Sophia will probably marry," Eliza said pragmatically. "What I said was, she will neverlove again."

He shrugged casually. "If one is to marry, it is best to do it for reasons other than love."

"That is exactly what Miss Sophia says." Eliza took her leave, pausing at the door to add with a bit too much sincerity, "How sensible you both are!" She departed with a chuckle while Ross scowled after her.

After a fortnight of diligent work, the runners Sayer and Gee finally managed to locate Nick Gentry, the popular figure of the London underworld. Every parlor and tavern was instantly ablaze with the news that he had been taken to Bow Street and held for questioning. The minute that Gentry was brought to the premises, he was imprisoned in the strong room, an area that Sophia had never been allowed to see. Naturally her curiosity about the forbidden cellar-level room was rampant, but Sir Ross had ordered her to stay away from it.

As word of Nick Gentry's detainment spread through the slums and rookeries of London, a large crowd gathered outside Bow Street No. 3, blocking the entire thoroughfare so that no vehicles could pass. Gentry's influence permeated every corner of the city. Although he called himself a thief-taker, he had in reality done much to organize crime in London. He directed gangs in their illegal activities, telling them how and when to commit crimes they might not have attempted without his guidance. Pickpockets, burglars, whores, and murderers all reported to him, receiving his assistance in matters ranging from disposing of stolen goods to helping felons avoid arrest.

Sophia had hoped for a glimpse of the notorious criminal, but he had been brought to Bow Street under cover of night. Sir Ross had been with him in the strong room every minute, settling in for a long period of questioning. "Sir Ross can only old Gentry for three days," Ernest informed Sophia breathlessly." 'E'll try his hardest to make Gentry admit to helping those men escape Newgate, but Gentry will never crack."

"You sound as if you admire Mr. Gentry," Sophia remarked.

The boy considered the question thoughtfully, blushing under her attention. "Well...Nick Gentry is not all bad. 'E does 'elp people sometimes...gives them jobs and money..."

"What kind of jobs?" Sophia asked dryly. "Surely not legitimate ones."

Ernest shrugged uncomfortably. "And he does arrest thieves and highwaymen, just as the runners do."

"From what Sir Ross says," Sophia murmured, "Mr. Gentry encourages people to commit crimes, and then he arrests them for it. Rather like creating criminals for his own profit, isn't it?" Ernest shot her a defensive glance, then smiled. "Oh, Gentry 'as 'is faults, Miss Sydney, but 'e's a rum one, jus' the same. I can't explain in a way ye would understand."

Sophia did understand, however. Sometimes a man proved to be so charismatic that the public was willing to overlook his sins. It seemed that Nick Gentry had captured the imaginations of aristocrat, merchant, and pickpocket alike...everyone in London was fascinated by him. His rivalry with Sir Ross only made him that much more intriguing.

Sir Ross did not come up from the strong room for the entire day, only sent Ernest back and forth with requests for water, or for a particular file from the criminal records room. Sayer and Gee, the two runners who had apprehended Gentry, also remained present for the questioning, although they sometimes emerged for a few moments of respite and fresh air.

Consumed by curiosity, Sophia approached Eddie Sayer as he stood outside in the stone-flagged courtyard behind Bow Street No. 4. The calls and cries from the crowd in front of the building were annoyingly persistent in demanding the release of Nick Gentry. Sophia was grateful for the iron fence that kept the protesters away from the buildings, but she feared that soon someone might decide to scale the partition.

Sayer had lifted his broad face to the cool spring breeze and was breathing deeply. Although the wind was tainted with the familiar scents of the London streets, manure and coal dust being prevalent, it seemed preferable to the atmosphere of the strong room. Hearing Sophia's footsteps on the stone, Sayer turned and grinned, his brown eyes twinkling. He was a large, dashing young man who flirted with every woman he encountered, no matter her age, appearance, or marital status.

"Ah, Miss Sydney...just the companion I was hoping for. No doubt you've come out here for a passionate tryst. Finally going to admit your feelings for me, eh?"

"Yes," Sophia said dryly, having learned that the best way to deal with the runners was to match their irreverence. "I have finally been swept up in the romantic atmosphere of Bow Street. Where shall we tryst, Mr. Sayer?"

The tall young man grinned. "I'm afraid I shall have to disappoint you, my fair one. Cannon only gave me five minutes' leave--not nearly enough time. Besides, I'm not one for trysting on hard stone. Please contain your disappointment."

Sophia folded her arms and regarded him with a slight smile. "How is it in the strong room, Mr. Sayer?"

The runner sighed, suddenly looking weary. "Cannon hasn't gotten much out of Gentry so far. It's like trying to fell an oak with a butter knife. Cannon keeps chipping away at him, though." He rubbed his face and groaned. "I suppose it is time for me to go back down there."

"Good luck," she said sympathetically, and watched him cross the courtyard back to the strong-room door.

The afternoon passed, and as evening approached, the mood of the crowd at Bow Street became more violent. Peering through the windows, Sophia saw that some of the protesters were carrying clubs, and there were small fires in the street where furniture had been brought and set alight. Bottles of liquor had been procured from The Brown Bear, the tavern opposite the public office, and the crowd was drinking freely. To Sophia's horror, the homes on either side of the public office were being assaulted; windows were broken, and clubs and fists beat angrily on the barricaded doors. When evening fell the mob had lost all reason. Ernest appeared at No. 4, telling Sophia and the servants to stay inside. The available runners were attempting to disperse the crowd. If they proved unsuccessful, they would summon help from the military.

"No need to worry," Eliza said breathlessly, her face pale. "The runners will put down the riot. They're good, brave men--they'll keep us safe."

"Where is Sir Ross?" Sophia asked Ernest, trying to remain calm, although the constant screaming of the mob was shredding her nerves.

"Still in the strong room with Gentry," Ernest replied. "'E says he'll shoot Gentry himself before letting the crowd have 'im."

As the boy dashed back to the adjoining building, Sophia returned to the window. She flinched as rocks and bottles were thrown, striking the house. "This is madness," she exclaimed. "Does Sir Ross know how bad it is getting? Before long they'll reduce the place to matchsticks!"

All three women jumped as a rock shattered the window, sending a shower of splintered glass to the floor.

"My God!" Eliza exclaimed.

"Heaven save us," Lucie squealed, her eyes like saucers. "What should we do?"

"Stay away from the windows," Sophia said shortly. "I'm going to the strong room."

The noise outside was deafening, the air acrid with smoke. Although no one had yet managed to scale the iron fence, Sophia could see a ladder being passed over the top of the writhing mob. Lifting her skirts, she ran through the courtyard and wrenched open the door that led to the strong room.

Stairs descended to a dark void. She climbed down carefully, since the stone beneath her feet was slick. The walls were green with mold, and the air was permeated with a sour stench that reminded her of urine. Sophia heard the sound of masculine voices, Sir Ross's among them. Following a dull glow at the bottom of the stairs, she found a narrow corridor that opened into a cellar-space. Lamplight flickered across the bars of three holding cells and cast a grid of shadows across the dirt floor. At the far end of the strong room, a table and chairs were positioned near a barred vent that gave onto the street level. The mob's ceaseless roar filtered through the opening.

Sophia saw two runners, Sir Ross, and a tall, well-dressed man who lounged insolently near the vent. One shoulder was braced casually against the wall, while his hands were buried deep in the pockets of his coat. He must be Nick Gentry, Sophia thought. Before she had a glimpse of his face, however, Sir Ross turned and approached her in a few swift strides.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was edged with a savagery that made her flinch.

Despite the coolness of the room, Cannon was in his shirtsleeves, the broad shape of his shoulders and the heavy muscles of his arms visible through the clinging white linen. The neck of the shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the edge of a thick pelt of hair on his chest. Sophia's startled gaze lifted to his face, which was hard and fierce, the gray eyes burning with wrath. "I told you not to come down here," he snapped. Although he was not precisely shouting, his voice was resonant with fury.

"I'm sorry, but there is something you must know--"

"When I tell you not to do something,you obey me , no matter what happens. Do you understand?"

"Yes, O lord and master," Sophia said sarcastically, her tension and worry sparking into anger. "However, I thought you should be informed that the mob is about to overtake number four. The constables can't hold them back much longer. They're breaking the windows. If you don't send for the military soon, they'll burn both buildings to the ground."

"Sayer." Sir Ross turned to the runner. "Go have a look outside. If the situation warrants, send for a troop of horse guards." He glanced back at Sophia. "Andyou --go upstairs and stay inside until I tell you otherwise."

Stung by the sharp way he spoke to her, she nodded and left the strong room as fast as her feet could take her.

As the housekeeper left the strong room, Nick Gentry, who had been contemplating the barred window-vent, turned back around.

"Nice little piece," he commented, obviously referring to Sophia. "Got 'er working the brass for you, Cannon? I think I'll take 'er when you're done."

Being familiar with street cant, Ross knew exactly what "working the brass" meant. It referred to a style of iron bed with brass knobs, and the activities that might take place on it. Usually the taunts of a prisoner had no effect on Ross. However, this seemed to be the one occasion when he couldn't control himself. The reference to Sophia as if she were a common prostitute was all it took to sent his fury skyrocketing.

"Either close that hole in the middle of your face," he snarled to Gentry, "or I'll do it for you."

Gentry grinned, clearly pleased with the success of his jab. "You've been trying to make me talk all day, and now you want me to shut my gob?"

Nick Gentry was well dressed and surprisingly young. He was also handsome, with dark hair and blue eyes and an easy smile. His accent, though not that of a gentleman, was far more refined than that of the average Cockney. One could almost mistake him for one of the aristocratic young bucks who spent their time gambling and chasing a light-skirt while they waited for their inheritances. But something about his face betrayed that he was a creature of the streets...a coldness that showed in the eyes and robbed the smile of all meaning. Somewhere in his past, Nick Gentry had learned that life was a bitter contest for dominance. He intended to win, and he played by no recognizable set of rules. Loyalty, fairness, mercy--these were qualities that he did not recognize. Ross found it amazing that a brutish bastard like Gentry had garnered so much support among the masses.

Gentry sent him a sly grin, as if he could read Ross's thoughts. "You'll have trouble on your hands tonight, Cannon. Listen to that crowd...they'll smash this place to the ground if you don't let me go."

"You're not going anywhere for the next two days," Ross said. "You're going to molder in the strong room for as long as I can legally keep you here. You may as well make yourself comfortable." "In this slosh-pot?" Gentry returned sourly. "Not bloody likely."