Seduced at Midnight

Chapter 14

Before presenting himself at Julianne's home, Gideon had several stops to make. The first was conducted in a shadowed doorway on a narrow side street on the outskirts of Whitechapel lined by tall, soot-covered brick buildings. There he slipped a folded piece of vellum and a sovereign into the hand of Henry Locke, whose cunning ability at ferreting out information people wished to keep hidden made him a very useful asset to Gideon. The man would have made an excellent Runner but for his unfortunate habit of picking pockets.

"These are the people I want looked into," Gideon said, giving Henry the list he'd comprised of everyone he knew who had been at Julianne's home yesterday. He would have preferred to conduct the investigating himself, but he couldn't do that and guard Julianne. "There will be more names, but this will get you started."

Henry glanced at the list, and although it contained the names of some powerful society peers, he showed no reaction. "When do you want the information?"

"Yesterday. Until I tell you otherwise, you can contact me at the Gatesbourne mansion in Grosvenor Square."

Something flickered in Henry's shrewd green eyes. "What brings you there?"

"Why do you ask?"

Henry shrugged. "No reason. I'll contact you as soon as I know something." He pocketed the list then slipped out of the doorway. Gideon watched him move like a wraith through the myriad twists and turns of the narrow alleys and disappear from view.

Picking up his portmanteau and giving a soft whistle for Caesar, he made his way back to the main street, where he hailed a hack. After giving the driver Logan Jennsen's direction, he sat back and closed his eyes.

Damn, he was tired. His eyelids felt gritty and heavy, a consequence of his sleepless night. But at least by not going home when he left the Drunken Porcupine, he'd accomplished something: gaining some information about Lord Beechmore that Logan Jennsen would find interesting. The investigative work had kept him from lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about things he needed to forget. Things he couldn't have.

The hack jerked to a halt and, after instructing the driver to wait, Gideon stood before Jennsen's home and stared at the sheer size and grandeur of the mansion. Bloody hell, the man was rumored to have more money than the entire royal family combined, and he obviously didn't have any qualms about spending it on his home.

A very proper butler answered his knock and several minutes later escorted Gideon down a long corridor. Jennsen's home rivaled that of Julianne's father, except Gatesbourne's house was, in a word, soulless, while Jennsen's was, in spite of the opulence and objets d'art and paintings that lined the walls, welcoming.

When the butler announced him at the door to a well-appointed study, Jennsen immediately rose from behind the massive mahogany desk and walked toward him.

"Mayne," he said, holding out his hand. "You have news for me?"

Gideon shook the American's hand and nodded. "I do."

"That was fast."

"I had some time and made good use of it."

"Surprised you've had any time at all, what with another robbery and murder on your hands. Terrible news about Lady Daltry." His gaze dropped to Caesar, who stood at attention next to Gideon, giving Jennsen a narrow-eyed look. "He's not going to chew off my leg, is he?"

"Only if he needs to. It's best not to make any sudden moves."

"Thanks for the warning. Would you like to sit down?"

"Thank you but no. I cannot stay. I just wanted to tell you what I learned about the matter you wished me to look into. According to my sources, Lord Beechmore recently suffered some serious financial losses."

Jennsen's gaze sharpened. "How recently and how serious?" "Last month, and very serious. He was involved in some high-stakes gambling on the Continent. He lost not only an enormous amount of money but two unentailed properties as well."

"Do you have an amount?"

"Not for the properties, but the monetary losses were reportedly fifty thousand pounds."

Jennsen nodded. "Anything else?"

"Just that he keeps a mistress in London, which is expensive, and has reportedly fathered a number of by-blows. Apparently he has a fondness for the household help."

Jennsen shrugged. "Not surprising. Based on my observations, the words gentleman and morals have little to do with each other. Is that all?"

"For now. If I learn anything further, I'll contact you."

"Thank you. I'll see to your payment and include a bonus for acting so quickly. Actually, I planned to call on you today. I recalled where I saw the snuffbox."

Gideon's interest quickened. "Where?"

"Daltry's party. Soon after I arrived. I was standing with a group of gentlemen, one of whom took the box from his waistcoat pocket."

"Do you recall which gentleman?"

"Lord Haverly."

Gideon instantly added Haverly's residence as another stop he needed to make this morning. He thanked Jennsen for the information, then they walked to the study door. Before turning the brass knob, Jennsen remarked, "The Times is once again filled with lurid speculation about the murdering ghost robber. Any new developments?"

"Nothing I can discuss. But rest assured, he'll be caught."

Something glinted in Jennsen's eyes. "Not worried that his ghostly self will slip through your fingers, Mayne?"

"Not in the least. He will be caught. And punished for his crimes."

"So if I were a betting man, I should wager on you rather than the ghost."

"Unless you're fond of losing your money."

"Can't say I am. Indeed, I'm not fond of losing anything, in any manner, for any reason."

"Neither am I," Gideon said grimly. "And I don't intend to start now."

He left the house and gave the driver Haverly's direction. Fifteen minutes later he was shown into his lordship's dining room.

"Rather early for a visit," Haverly said, looking none too pleased at having his breakfast interrupted.

For a reply, Gideon held out the snuffbox. "Recognize this?"

Haverly's eyes widened. "Of course I do. It's mine. Where did you find it?" He reached for the box, but Gideon pulled his hand back.

"Find it?"

"Yes," Haverly said with a frown. "I lost it. Sometime during Daltry's party. Is that where you found it?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Specifically, I found it beneath a window. One whose lock was tampered with. A window someone attempted to use to gain access to the house." Gideon's eyes narrowed. "Where, as you know by now, Lady Daltry was robbed and murdered."

Haverly blinked. "And you think I am in some way responsible?"

"Are you?"

"Certainly not." Haverly tossed down his napkin and stood. A red hue colored his face. "How dare you ask such a question. Why would I do such a thing?"

"I'm not certain. Yet."

"Well, I wouldn't. And I didn't. Obviously whoever did either found or stole my snuffbox."

"Rather careless of 'whoever' to drop it after taking the time to steal it," Gideon said, watching him carefully.

"Perhaps it was dropped on purpose. To implicate me."

Gideon set the box on the table. "Perhaps. But rest assured, I'll discover the truth. I'll show myself out."

He left and settled himself in the waiting hack, this time giving the driver the Duke of Eastling's direction.

His Grace was no more pleased to see him than Haverly had been. "I'm leaving in precisely five minutes for an appointment," the duke said, after Gideon was shown into his private study.

"I'll be brief. You're aware Lady Daltry was robbed and murdered yesterday."

"Yes. Terrible tragedy."

"You knew Lady Daltry well?"

"Known the entire family for years."

"You consider Lord Daltry a friend?"

A hint of annoyance flashed across the duke's features. "Of course. As I said, we've known each other for years."

"Did he have any objections to you tupping his wife?"

The flash of surprise in the duke's eyes was nearly imperceptible, but Gideon had been expecting it. "That's an ill-mannered thing to say about a dead woman."

"I was saying it more about you."

"What makes you think we were… involved?"

"I saw you together. At Daltry's party. In his private study. Next time you decide to lift the skirts of a friend's wife and bend her over a chair, you might want to lock the door."

The duke's eyes turned to slits. "If you're suggesting that because Lady Daltry and I enjoyed a private moment together I had something to do with the robbery and her death-"

"I'm merely suggesting the timing of those two events is… curious."

"Then I'm certain you'll also find it curious that I wasn't the only one lifting her skirts. Lady Daltry was a woman of insatiable appetites. Indeed, I wasn't the first man she'd had that night."

Gideon raised his brows. "Now who's saying ill-mannered things about a dead woman?"

"Unfortunately, it appears I must be less than discreet to defend myself."

"How do you know you weren't her first lover of the evening?"

"She told me."

"Did she give you a name?"

"No. But you won't have any difficulty finding former lovers. I'd wager most of the male guests at the party had at one time or another enjoyed the lady's charms." He rose. "Is that all?"

Bloody hell, it was exceedingly difficult not to show his extreme dislike for this man. This man who had everything yet clearly valued nothing. At least not friendship. Or marriage vows. Or a lady's reputation. This man who would be Julianne's husband. Even though she'd deceived him and he was angry with her, the thought of her married to an immoral bastard like the duke made Gideon sick inside. "That's all for now," he said, matching His Grace's chilly tone.

He departed and this time gave the hackney Julianne's direction. As the hack rumbled along the cobblestones toward Grosvenor Square, he wondered how many lies he'd been told this morning.

After surrendering his portmanteau to Winslow-who gave him the list he'd asked for of everyone who had come into the house the previous day-Gideon sat through a brief interview with the earl during which he was reminded of his duties and told he'd be taking his meals in the kitchen. No big surprise there. He hadn't expected the earl to treat him like anything other than what he was. More hired help.

Gideon then wrote a copy of the list Winslow had provided and arranged to have it delivered to Henry. That done, he made his way down the long corridor leading to the music room where the earl told him Lady Julianne awaited, and the earl departed for his club.

Caesar padded silently along at Gideon's side. "Looking for your little princess friend?" Gideon asked, cocking a brow at the dog.

Caesar licked his chops then started to pant. Gideon shook his head. Bloody hell. How the mighty had fallen. And smote by such a ridiculous thing as Cupid's dart no less. "Best turn your attention to a more attainable mutt, my friend. You know you'll find that fancy, tulle-skirted, tempting ball of fluff already promised to a purebred of her own breed."

Caesar shot him a defiant look, and Gideon frowned in return. "Fine. Don't listen. But don't say I didn't warn you. You'd be smart to harden your heart. Just as I've done." Right. He'd allowed his desires to get the better of him once. He wouldn't be allowing it again.

Once?his inner voice asked incredulously. Once?

His frown deepened. Bloody well fine. More than once. But it wouldn't happen again. Especially now that he knew she was engaged. And hadn't told him. Had purposely deceived him. Surely that would help him keep his distance.

They were still several doors away from their destination when Gideon's footsteps slowed at the sound of slow, lilting piano notes floating through the air. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, and he was drawn to it like a moth to flame. He approached the room and halted in the doorway, struck still by the sight of her.

She sat at the pianoforte, her back to him, the foreground to a backdrop of golden sunshine that spilled through the tall French windows, gilding her with an almost ethereal glow. Her shiny blond curls were caught up in a simple knot and woven with pale blue ribbons that matched her short-sleeved gown, a color he knew would highlight her extraordinary eyes. A single pale tendril bisected her ivory nape-a bit of skin that looked like creamy velvet his fingers and mouth itched to explore.

He clenched his hands and pressed his lips into a tight line to suppress the urge. And forced himself to recall that she wasn't his. Never would be. Never could be. That she'd lied to him and enticed him, knowing she belonged to someone else. His anger resurfaced-thank God-and he latched onto it as if it were a lifeline and he'd been tossed overboard into storm-ravaged waters.

Her back was perfectly straight, her head bent slightly forward, her shoulders swaying as she caressed the keys to coax forth the haunting melody, one that suddenly changed tempo and mood, shifting from what had sounded like a dreary winter's day to a burst of spring sunshine. He stood in the doorway, entranced by the beauty of the music that swelled around him. Never before had he heard anything so lyrical, any tune that conjured such clear, vivid pictures in his mind, and he wondered if his thoughts matched what the composer had intended.

After several minutes the music changed again, slowing down, back into the mournful notes he'd heard when he first entered the room. He imagined the laughter and sunshine and happiness slipping away, replaced by shadows, clouds, and sorrow. The tune ended on a desolate note that reverberated through the room until it vanished into silence. It was the most evocative, beautiful thing he'd ever heard, yet one that only further emphasized their divergent circumstances. Women in his world didn't while away their time playing the pianoforte in their mansions. Nor did they become engaged to dukes. Or share intimacies with the hired help.

He was about to speak, but before he could, a series of yips from near the fireplace broke the silence. Gideon turned and saw Princess Buttercup, who'd clearly been napping on an oversized pillow near the hearth, rise from her satin throne and dash toward him and Caesar as if they were her long-lost best friends. Today the small dog wore a pink tulle skirt with a matching bow holding her snowy fur out of her gleaming black eyes. She launched herself at Gideon, a blur of canine joy.

Amused in spite of himself, he crouched down and scratched behind her soft, furry ears and tickled her warm tummy. After bestowing a frenzy of kisses on his hand, she abandoned him and turned her attention to Caesar whose wagging tail thumped furiously against the doorjamb. Gideon stood and allowed his besotted pet a moment to reacquaint himself with his lady love, then commanded softly, "Caesar, guard." Caesar immediately ended the frivolity and posted himself in the doorway. Princess Buttercup plopped her bottom next to him and stared adoringly up into his jowly face.

He turned his attention back to the pianoforte. Julianne had risen and stood beside the velvet tufted bench, her hands clasped in front of her. Her sheer beauty struck him insensate for several seconds, but he quickly recovered himself and walked toward her, his boots muffled against the thick carpet. He stopped when six feet remained between them. His gaze raked over her, and he clenched his hands. Bloody hell, her lips still looked kiss-swollen, and his own lips tingled at the memory of that which he wanted nothing more than to forget.

She said nothing for several long seconds, just looked up at him with those big blue eyes that surely would have melted his insides if he hadn't steeled himself against them. Then she said, "My father told me about his arrangement with you. I'm very glad and relieved you'll be here, especially given Lady Daltry's robbery and death."

"He's paying me extremely well."

Disappointment flickered across her features at his cold words, but then her spine seemed to stiffen. "I see. Well, money is the one thing of which Father has plenty, and he's an expert at discovering how much of it is required to get what he wants. He's fond of saying 'everyone has their price.'" She raised her chin. "Clearly he found yours. I'm not certain which of you to congratulate."

A flush of shame heated Gideon's face. Damn it, he'd purposely made it sound as if he'd accepted the job of protecting her because of the pay-as opposed to anything personal between them-and she'd neatly hoisted him on his own petard. "You're insinuating I was bought."

"I'm not insinuating it. I'm stating it outright." She gave an elegant shrug. "'Tis of no importance. You're in very exalted company. Father's latest acquisition is the Duke of Eastling-as a husband for me. But you already know that."

"Yes. Your engagement is something you conveniently neglected to mention." He tried to keep his tone bland and impersonal, but the words came out harsh and abrupt.

Scarlet suffused her cheeks, but her gaze didn't waver. "Would it have mattered?"

No. "Yes. I'm not in the habit of making a cuckold of another man. In fact, I've a strong aversion to it."

"He is not yet my husband."

"He is your betrothed and will be your husband in a fortnight." Anger mixed with unwanted jealousy spread through Gideon like a poison infecting his entire body. "Bad enough that I compromised your innocence. In my ignorance of your engagement, I also compromised my honor. I don't take things that belong to others."

Her bottom lip trembled, and she seemed to deflate, as if all her bravado leaked out of her. "You didn't take anything. Still, you're right, of course. I… I should have told you, but-"

"There are no buts," he broke in coldly. "You should have told me. As for last night-it didn't happen."

Her eyes glistened, twin pools of distress that threatened to melt his resolve like ice left out in the sun. Before he could succumb, he advanced a single step, using his size to full advantage, and pinned her in place with his stare. "It did not happen."

To her credit, she didn't back away. She pressed her lips together, jerked her head in a tight nod, then looked at the floor. Silence swelled between them. Then she raised her head, and this time her eyes resembled burned-out ashes, left dead after a fire. "Did my father tell you the engagement will be officially announced at our party here next week?"

"No." Bloody hell, this investigation had better be finished by then, because the thought of being here to witness such an announcement, to see the duke formally claim her, was something he hadn't the stomach for.

"It's going to be the social event of the year," she said, her tone as flat as her expression. "I suppose you think I'm very fortunate."

"Aren't you?" he asked, a bitter edge to his voice.

She looked away, trailing her fingers over the piano keys, then moved to the fireplace where she stared down at the low-burning flame.

"Fortunate… I'll be a duchess. By virtue of marrying a man I barely know. A man I care nothing for and who cares nothing for me. Fortunate… I'll live in a magnificent home. That is hundreds of miles away from my dearest friends and everything familiar to me. Fortunate… I'll have more baubles and gowns than I could ever wear and will never want for anything."

She turned to look at him, and the combination of anger and hopelessness in her eyes seemed to reach inside his chest and squeeze his beating heart. "I'll have everything except a husband's love. A husband I love in return. Laughter. Friendship. Companionship. Passion."

Her expression tore at him, replacing a portion of his anger with an unwanted compassion that compelled him to say something, anything, that might offer some comfort. "Perhaps you'll come to care for him." He forced the words out, and they tasted like sawdust on his tongue.

A humorless laugh escaped her. "Obviously you've never met the duke."

"I've met him." And disliked him on sight.

"Then I fail to see how you can suggest I'd ever come to care for him. If I had to describe him in one word, it would be humorless. Still, given his exalted position and handsome visage, most anyone would consider me very fortunate indeed."

"But you are not 'most anyone.'" He hadn't realized he'd spoken the words out loud until she nodded in response.

"Apparently not, as I consider myself trapped. Although not by His Grace himself. In truth, it wouldn't have mattered which of my suitors Father had chosen, as they are all interchangeable with the duke: men I barely know who don't care for me beyond my dowry, nor I for them. None of them inspire the least excitement. Light the slightest spark within me." Her gaze flicked to his mouth, and heat shot through him as if she'd stabbed him with a hot knife. "Do you know what I am talking about?"

Did he know? Bloody hell, the mere thought of her made his heart pound. The mere sight of her set him on fire. "Yes, I know."

She took a small step toward him, and his heart jumped. "How?"

Because you're here. Close enough to touch. "I've experienced lust. Passion. Desire." His eyes narrowed. "As recently as last night. As you damn well know."

"What about love? Have you ever been in love?"

An image flashed through his mind. Dark hair, dark eyes. He shoved it back, but he couldn't deny it. "Yes." And he had loved Gwen. Yet still, what he'd felt for the woman he'd known and loved three years ago seemed utterly tame compared to the maelstrom of conflicting, unwanted, confusing emotions Julianne inspired. But then, what he'd felt for Gwen had been… simple. Uncomplicated. While it had lasted.

"Was it… wonderful?"

"No. It was painful." He dragged his hands through his hair, ruthlessly battering back the memories that shoved at him. "Your romantic notions are unrealistic and will lead you only to heartbreak."

"Was your heart broken?"

He pressed his lips together. Bloody hell, how had the conversation drifted on to these treacherous waters? Time to change the subject. But then he frowned. Maybe he should tell her. Give her a taste of what the real world was like. The world beyond the castle of riches and privilege in which she dwelled. Maybe then she'd realize how lucky she was. And quit looking at him with those vulnerable eyes that reflected her every emotion, that gazed upon him far too frequently with admiration. Which would certainly help his ability to resist her.

"Yes, Princess," he said with a sneer. "My heart was broken. By a woman I'd planned to marry."

His revelation clearly surprised her. "What happened?"

Memories rammed into him, and for several seconds he felt crushed under their weight. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came forth. Anger and sorrow and guilt clamped his throat shut around the words that still, after three years, remained so precariously sutured. He swallowed, painfully, then the words suddenly poured out of him, words he hadn't spoken since it had happened. "She died. She worked as a maid. I always came to escort her home, but one night I was delayed. Instead of waiting for me, she walked alone. And was accosted by a footpad. She fought back, but he was stronger. And had a knife." His hands clenched, and the fury he'd felt at the time rose in him again. "He stole what little money she had. Then gutted her like a fish. She died in my arms."

"Dear God. Gideon…" Her eyes filled with a combination of horror and sympathy. With her gaze on his, she walked slowly toward him. His instincts warned him not to let her get too close, but he felt as if he were nailed in place. She stopped less than an arm's length from him. He wanted to look away, walk away from her, but he simply couldn't move. Reaching out, she gently laid her hand on one of his clenched fists. "I'm so sorry. Inadequate words, I know, but I don't have any others." She hesitated then said, "The monster responsible… was he apprehended?"

Another wave of dark memories washed over him. "Yes. I caught him. In the act of hurting another woman. She survived. He did not." Gideon had made damn sure of that.

"You saved that woman's life. And undoubtedly many other women's lives by ending his."

"Yes. But I didn't save the life that mattered to me."

She gently squeezed his hand. Heat rushed up his arm, filling him with anger that she could affect him so effortlessly. "I'm sorry your heart was broken in such a cruel way."

Her words yanked him from the past, and he forced himself to recall the here and now: his sense of betrayal. He pulled his hand away from hers and stepped back. "My heart is none of your concern," he said in a harsh voice. "What should concern you is your penchant for lying."

"If you're referring to the duke-"

"You know damn well I am."

"I didn't lie."

"You didn't admit the truth. That's the same thing."

"Actually, it's not." She raised her chin. "Have you admitted everything about yourself to me?"

"Seems to me I just admitted a whole damn lot." Certainly more than he'd meant to. "You know everything you need to know-the whole of which is that I've been hired to protect you and to catch whoever tried to enter your bedchamber last night."

Her gaze again flicked down to his lips. "Based on what you just told me and what happened between us last night… I know more about you than that, Gideon."

Another wave of heat suffused him, this one settling in his groin. "Which you'd be best to forget. As I intend to."

She shook her head and moved a step closer. "I'll never forget."

He sucked in a quick breath, and his head filled with the scent of vanilla. Want and need swamped him, threatening to overwhelm his resolve. He could-and would-remain in control. He could not-and would not-touch her. He looked into her eyes, a mistake, as they reflected a combination of confusion, hope, and such longing it seemed to rip his chest open. And evaporate his anger like a puddle in the desert.

"Will you really be able to forget?" she whispered, her gaze searching his face. "Did what we shared truly mean nothing to you?" Her bottom lip trembled. "Am I that forgettable?"

He had to fist his hands to keep from giving into the choking need to snatch her against him, a fact that bloody well irritated him, a feeling he grabbed in desperation. "As I said earlier-and you agreed-last night did not happen. We shared nothing. What is this-another hunting expedition for compliments, Princess? I suggest you ask one of your many admirers, or here's a novel idea-your fiancé-to shower you with admiring words. If you can't wait until one of them calls, go look in the mirror, wallow in your extreme loveliness"-he spat out the last two words as if they were poison-"and spout your own bloody accolades."

He didn't want to feel like a bastard for his harshness, but damn it, he did, which only served to irritate him further. Frustration built in him until he felt like a boiling caldron. He steeled himself against the hurt he expected to cloud her eyes and was surprised when unmistakable anger flared instead. Indeed, she looked as if she were ready to boil.

She stepped back several paces. "That is the second time you've accused me of wallowing in my looks, Mr. Mayne." Her lip curled when she said his name, as if it tasted bad. "Allow me to enlighten you as to why a princess such as myselfdoesn't wallow in her looks. After being surrounded by it my entire life, I am unimpressed by outward beauty. I find it treacherous in that it can disguise even the most disagreeable character. Rather like a gorgeous tapestry covering a writhing pit of vipers. As an example, I offer my mother. She is extraordinarily beautiful, is she not?"

Gideon hesitated several seconds then replied, "I'm sure most people would say so."

"I assure you they do. Yet unfortunately she is not a kind woman. Or a warm, loving one. I don't say that to be unkind myself, I am merely stating a fact. As you've expressed a penchant for summing things up in one word, I'd apply ruthless to my mother."

Gideon couldn't disagree, although overbearing was a close second choice to describe the woman. It had been painfully obvious since his first meeting with her that the Countess of Gatesbourne possessed a thumb the size of the entire kingdom. And she had no compunction about holding her daughter beneath that mighty thumb's weight.

"Beauty's other great failing," she continued, "is that it requires no level of talent or accomplishment. It's nothing more than an accident of birth."

"Like the fact that you're an earl's daughter. And I'm a commoner."

"Yes, although I don't think there's anything common about you. Honor, integrity, compassion, valor…they are important and lasting. And, as far as I'm concerned, they far surpass any class order."

He studied her and couldn't decide if he were puzzled, annoyed, or both. He watched her anger wither, the fire leeching from her eyes to be replaced by what appeared to be embarrassment. He'd be willing to wager that she'd never confessed such things to anyone. He'd certainly never heard any member of the aristocracy utter such sentiments.

"You must think I'm daft," she said, when he remained silent.

He continued to study her, his own anger seeping away in spite of his best efforts to hold on to it, then finally said, "I don't think you're daft. I think you're… surprising." Yes, she was. Disconcertingly so.

The urge to reach out, to cup her perfect face in his palm, a face she claimed not to admire, gripped him with such force he had to step away from her. He moved to the fireplace, putting a safe distance between them, then stared into the flames. "You cannot deny your beauty garners you much attention."

"Yes, but of what sort? My mother uses it to advance her matchmaking schemes. My father barters it to the highest bidder without regard to my feelings. And who gives me attention for it? Gentlemen who pursue me for my fortune. Who merely want an ornament upon their arm."

He sensed her approach, and his every muscle tightened. From the corner of his eye he saw her stand next to him, and he forced himself to remain staring at the fire.

"As far as I'm concerned, beauty hasn't garnered me any attention worth having," she said softly. "Nor has it gained me any true friends, although it has tossed many false ones my way." A humorless sound passed her lips. "Do you have any idea how excruciatingly hollow it is to be admired for no reason other than your reflection in the mirror?"

Unable to stop himself, he shifted his attention from the crackling flames to her. At the sight of her, looking so lost and vulnerable, the last vestiges of his anger melted away, leaving a bone-deep, aching emptiness in its place. "Hardly. If I'm admired for anything, it certainly isn't my looks."

She hiked up a brow. "Now who is guilty of false modesty and on a fishing expedition for compliments?"

A sound of disbelief escaped him. "No man whose nose has been broken twice expects compliments regarding his appearance. As for being admired for anything else…" He shrugged. "I'm good at my job. I have to be, or I'd end up dead. Although the criminals I capture aren't particularly complimentary regarding my skills."

"No, I imagine they wouldn't be. Nor, I suppose are they much taken with your good looks." A whiff of mischief twinkled in her eyes. "No doubt they'd like to rearrange them for you."

He rubbed his finger down the bridge of his nose, telling himself it was ridiculous for a man with no vanity to feel so pleased that she thought him good-looking. "Two have succeeded." He shot her a half grin. "Of course, when the dust settled, they ended up looking far worse than me."

"I've no doubt," she murmured. "How long have you been a Runner?"

"Five years."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"It… satisfies me."

"In what way?"

He turned so he faced her fully. "I like righting wrongs. Solving mysteries. Getting dangerous criminals off the streets. Seeing justice done."

"You must have experienced a great deal during those five years. Seen a great deal."

"Yes." Things she would never want to see. Things he wished he hadn't seen.

"And before Bow Street what did you do?"

"I served in the army."

"And before that?"

"Do you always ask so many questions?"

"No. Never. Mother would be horrified at my lack of manners and restraint. However, I find myself insatiably curious about you. Your life."

"There is nothing to know. I have my work. A few trusted friends." He nodded toward the open doorway. "Caesar."

"How did you two come to be together?"

She appeared genuinely interested, and in spite of himself, he found himself relaxing and responding. "I found him."

"Where?"

"At the docks. Saw some bastard toss a basket over the side of a ship just pulling out. I knew something alive was inside, so I rescued the basket. And found Caesar. He was only a few weeks old."

Her eyes went wide with shock. "He would have drowned!" "That was the point of him being tossed over the side. Easiest way to get rid of unwanted animals."

"How horrible. And cruel."

"Yes. But it happens every day. That and worse. It's a horrible, cruel world."

"Yes, but there is also a great deal of good."

He shrugged. "In my line of work I see far more of the bad." She studied him, just as he'd studied her moments ago. Then she nodded slowly. "Yes, I can see that. It's in your eyes, the horrible things you've seen. They've hurt you."

Her words both surprised and unnerved him. She couldn't have seen anything in his eyes. He'd learned long ago how to turn his face into an unreadable mask. Before he could even think of a reply, she asked, "I wonder when was the last time you laughed-a real, true laugh that reached deep inside you and all the way up to your eyes. I wager it's been a long, long time."

His brows collapsed in a frown. "Don't be ridiculous. I laugh all the time." Of course he did-when there was something to laugh about. Hardly his fault that catching criminals wasn't a nonstop jest festival.

"Indeed? From what I can tell, the next time will be the first time. But don't worry. I intend to fix that."

"I'm not wor-"

"Where do you live?"

"Live?"

"Yes. Where do you make your home? Sleep at night?"

His gaze swept the chamber. "Nowhere grand like this."

"You like this room?"

"You want the truth?"

"Of course."

He looked around again. He wished he could honestly say he disliked this room, but he didn't. In spite of its size, it was somehow cozy, and he found the pale green and blue color scheme soothing. "I actually like this room. It's not o… ornate as some of the others."

Julianne nodded. "I completely agree. This is my favorite spot in the entire house. Although it's large, I find it warm and cheerful. And comforting. I love music."

"You play very well."

"Thank you." She looked toward the ceiling and heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Mother would tell you I'm a virtuoso."

His lips twitched slightly. "You're not?"

"Hardly. But I strive to better myself. Have you any musical talent?"

"None that I'm aware of. I've never tried to play any instrument and on the few occasions I've attempted to sing, Caesar put up a howl-literally. So I shut my mouth before he decided to bury me in a deep hole."

She made a tsking sound. "Terrible how criticism can discourage budding talent. What were these occasions that prompted you to sing?"

"Drunken revelry, I'm afraid."

She smothered a laugh. "I see. What songs did you sing?"

"Nothing that could be repeated to a lady."

Her eyes lit up, seeming to glow from within. "Nonsense. I've always wanted to learn a bawdy song. All the songs I know are boring. About flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows."

"Like the piece you were playing when I arrived?"

"You heard that?"

"Yes. Parts of it were sad. Mournful. But one part was very bright and… meadowy. What is the name of that piece?"

"I call it 'Dreams of You.'"

"What does the composer call it?"

She hesitated, then said softly, "'Dreams of You.'"

He couldn't hide his surprise. "You wrote it?"

"Yes." She looked down for several seconds then lifted her chin to meet his gaze. The shyness and vulnerability that had struck him the first time he'd looked at her stared at him now. "No one has ever heard it before. Except me." One corner of her mouth lifted. "And Princess Buttercup."

"Why?"

"I've no desire to bore anyone."

"I wasn't bored." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

"Do you know anything about music?"

"No."

She gave a quick laugh. "There you have it."

"But I know what I like. Just as I'm sure you like flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows."

"Why? Because I'm a princess?"

Her lip curled with such distaste on the last word he couldn't help but chuckle. "It's not an insult, you know."

Disbelief was written all over her face. "Really? I had the distinct impression it was." She gave an elegant sniff. "You certainly haven't meant it as a compliment."

Without thinking, he reached out and captured her hand. She drew in a sharp breath as he brushed the pad of his thumb over her fingertips. "Hmmm. So the kitten has claws. Interesting."

It took her several seconds to respond, and he realized the folly of touching her. Color suffused her cheeks with a captivating blush, and heat sizzled up his arm. He quickly released her hand, but his fingers curled into a fist to retain her warmth for several seconds.

"Yes, as a matter of fact she does," she said in a breathless voice. "And she greatly prefers being compared to a kitten rather than a drunken porcupine-although she'd much prefer a lioness to a kitten."

He inclined his head. "As you wish, Lioness. And to answer your question about why I would think you'd like flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows, it's because…"

His common sense had him hesitating, screaming at him to shut his mouth. But his lips obviously weren't listening, because seemingly of their own volition they continued to flap and spill out words that would surely appall him later. "… You're a lovely, innocent young woman who should never be touched by anything that isn't equally as lovely and innocent." Including himself.

She blinked. "That sounds suspiciously like a compliment."

"I meant it as one." And damn it, he did. What in God's name was wrong with him? Where had his anger gone? Where was the rod he'd fused to his spine to steel himself against her?

"Thank you. But I'd still like to learn a bawdy song. Will you teach me?"

"You'd be shocked."

"I hope so. I want to be shocked. I want to feel. Experience something of life."

Her eyes… bloody hell, he felt himself drowning in those clear, blue pools that shimmered with a combination of everything she'd shown him since he'd walked into this room filled with his righteous sense of betrayal and a fierce determination to keep his distance: shyness and despair, vulnerability and unexpected strength. All things he didn't want to see. Wished to hell he hadn't. He didn't want to find anything in her to like. To admire. To respect. It was so much easier to believe she was nothing more than a spoiled, vain princess enamored of her own beauty.

But clearly, she was much more.

Bloody hell.

If all he felt for her was lust, desire, he had a fighting chance to resist temptation. But if he were foolish enough to let himself feel more for her… to care for her… to allow her to scale the walls he'd built around his heart… well, then, he'd be cast adrift on stormy seas without so much as a rowboat in sight.

His anger drained away, leaving him with nothing save a deep, aching want. One that would have to go unsatisfied.

"I have very little time left before my marriage, and I don't wish to spend it in morose reflection or consumed with sadness. I want to do something. Toward that end, won't you please teach me a bawdy song? If you do, I'll teach you something in return."

He should have flatly refused. But once again his lips had a mind of their own and asked, "Such as?"

A hint of mischief touched her eyes. "Embroidery?"

"Not very useful on Bow Street, I'm afraid."

"Ah. Then how about fisticuffs?"

"And what do you know about fisticuffs?"

"Absolutely nothing. So I'm afraid that won't do." She tapped her finger against her chin and frowned. Then brightened. "I could teach you to play a song on the pianoforte."

"I'm afraid my hands are too clumsy."

"Nonsense. I'll teach you a simple song. About flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows." She held out her hand. "Do we have a bargain, Mr. Mayne?"

He knew he should say no. Tell her to just read or sit in the corner. But damn it, he suddenly wanted to teach her a bawdy song. Watch her cheeks turn scarlet and that unexpected impudence to shine in her eyes. As she'd said, only a short time remained before she'd be married and gone. Why not make that time as pleasant as possible for her? Otherwise he'd feel as if he were just tossing more dirt on the glass coffin in which she'd dreamed of herself confined. He could control himself. He would control himself.

Reaching out, he took her hand and shook it. And firmly ignored the jolt of heat that shot up his arm.

"You have a bargain, Lady Julianne. Let the lessons begin."