Chapter 2

Diana read a lot of books. It was, if you asked her mother, one of her worst qualities.

Her favorite books were full of adventures, misadventures, and an intrepid heroine who muddled through them all.

Diana knew, without a doubt, that whenever she saw the phrase "suspicious characters" in print, she would forevermore think of the three men who loitered in front of the building that should not have—but did—belong to the erstwhile Duke of Hawkins.

Even from where she hid behind a pile of wooden crates, the three were visibly filthy. They lounged against a soot-smudged brick wall, smoking malodorous cheap tobacco. Their speech, when she could parse the heavy Southside accents, concerned a certain lady of ill repute whom they had all apparently known.

Possibly concurrently. Diana was unclear on those details.

"So's I says to Ol' Bess," chortled the one in the middle, who could have been aged anywhere from forty to seventy. It was hard to tell under the low brow of his battered hat and general griminess. "Why's I payin' when you's the one gettin'?"

"Gettin' good what yuh givin'," added the large one. Diana was pretty sure this was nonsense.

"Aye, bet she screeched good at that one," agreed the third, who was skinny as a rail. "Always screechin', ain't they, that type?"

"Screechin' ain't bad, yuh catch m'drift," said the large one.

Diana did not catch his drift and figured she should probably be grateful for that.

This went on for some time, and Diana was just beginning to worry that she'd wasted a night—and the risk of slipping out after dark—when the men's conversation changed in tenor. Her ears pricked.

"Christ, but we've been waitin' ages," groused the skinny man. "How long's it take to make a deal, anyhow?"

"T'weren't ever like this when the old toff were in charge, were it?" commiserated the middle fellow.

Diana's breath caught. The old toff—that had to be the late Duke, didn't it? She leaned forward, ears straining to catch every word before it was snatched away by the light breeze but jerked back when she brushed against the stack of crates, causing it to rattle ominously.

Fortunately, the men didn't seem to notice.

"Naw," the skinny man said. "Like a chicken wiv 'is head cut off, it is. Ain't nobody know when them ships come in or what."

"Quit yer bellyachin'," ordered the large man. "Ain't so bad to keep a lookout while others're hauling loads, innit?"

With some reluctance the other two seemed to agree that, no, it wasn't so bad. To Diana's disappointment, their conversation returned to poor Ol' Bess. Diana wondered if the woman in question knew how large she loomed in these fellows' imaginations.

She kept one ear on their conversation, which never returned to anything interesting, her mind racing. She felt more convinced than ever that the late Duke had been involved in some financial chicanery, and that said criminal activity had taken place right here. But she needed more information, and the three men (who were now bemoaning the watered-down ale at their favorite pub) seemed unlikely to provide any more information. Diana was once again wondering if she ought to call it quits for the night when a flicker of movement caught her attention.

She was not precisely an expert in such matters, but the way he moved, furtive and keeping to the shadows, seemed decidedly suspicious.

As did the large sack he carried over his shoulder.

A frisson of excitement shot through her. The three guards (such as they were, given that they hadn't seemed to notice this new fellow) seemed unlikely to give her any further information. But this man was going somewhere. Another location meant another clue, another answer in the puzzle of what the late Duke of Hawkins had been up to before his death.

She emerged from her hiding place behind the crates, following the man as he slipped with alarming speed through the shadows. Diana hurried after him, eyes focused on his back, terrified she would lose him as he navigated the twisting alleys of this part of London.

It was an unfamiliar task on unfamiliar terrain; keeping track and keeping up was like trying to chase a will o' the wisp, only without the beguiling light. Diana's full focus was on the sack thrown over the disappearing man's shoulder, its lighter brown fabric slightly more visible than the dark clothes that covered the man's back.

She was intent; she was moving quickly. She was desperately eager for this next break, this sudden clue, this possible last chance before she was bundled off to marry some strange aristocrat.

Which meant, of course, that she was very surprised, indeed, when she crashed full force into an immovable mass of man.

She was a nice armful. Andrew tried very hard not to notice that.

He noticed it.

"Oof," said the armful. "Ouch."

Was that… Well bugger him sideways. Why did this girl speak like she was in a Mayfair ballroom?

Almost on instinct, he held on to her as she tried to pull back. Immediately—and truly, who could blame her—she began to struggle.

"Let me go!" she said, furious. Damn. That was an upper-crust accent if he'd ever heard one. What the hell was a lady doing lurking around the docks at half three in the morning?

He let her go. The last thing he needed tonight was to accost a lady, even if that lady was stupid enough to put herself in a situation that left her highly susceptible to being accosted.

Except then she tried to sidestep him and continue on her merry way. And though Andrew had thought that his adventures—in India, in the new United States, in the wilds of Canada—had driven from him any gentlemanly instinct that had been beaten into him by his rigid English upbringing…

Well, apparently those instincts remained. Because he simply could not—absolutely physically could not—let this young woman continue after the unwashed derelict she'd been pursuing.

"No," he said.

She was wearing a cloak, the hood pulled up to shadow her face. Even so, he could see her eyes grow wide, could see the righteous indignation that rippled over her expression.

"No?" she echoed, the sound too loud in the night. At least she had the presence of mind to realize it as she lowered her voice as she continued to berate him.

"Sir," she said hotly, and Lord, if there'd ever been a sign that she shouldn't be out here, it was the fact that she called a man who'd waylaid her in the night ‘sir.' "You have no right to forestall me. Release me at once."

He looked down and found that his hand was, in fact, grasping her shoulder. Huh.

He did not release her.

"No," he said again.

In another circumstance, her sputter would have been charming. She leaned to peer around him, so he shuffled a half step closer. He didn't need her getting any ideas about darting off and getting herself killed.

She frowned up at him, the shadows and moonlight making her lips look far too appealingly plump.

"You've made me lose my man," she complained.

Technically, she had made him lose his man, since she, whoever she was, could not possibly have as good a reason as he did to stake out this grimy warehouse. He needed to know whether his father was smuggling guns (meaning that Andrew would certainly be shot if he tried to enter the warehouse) or, say, French perfume (meaning that Andrew would only probably be shot if he tried to enter the warehouse).

A smuggler was a smuggler, even when they dealt in finery.

But the question of who the degenerate was to her was, Andrew felt, secondary to many other questions such as, "What the hell do you think you're up to?" and "Have you lost your mind?"

Since it didn't seem likely that he'd get a satisfactory answer to either of those questions, he instead asked, "Do you really think it's wise to go chasing after a strange man in the dark?"

"I fail to see," she said, voice haughty, "how that is any business of yours."

Despite the confidence in her tone, she took a step back.

This was a good thing. Andrew told himself this. Yes, very well, he didn't precisely have a plan in this interaction. One never expected to physically collide with a well-to-do lunatic. It was hard to prepare for such eventualities.

But if he could convince her to experience a modicum of fear, just enough that she no longer threw herself into obvious danger, that would be as good an outcome as any.

That was why he took another step forward. Probably.

"Perhaps it isn't," he said agreeably. "My business, that is. However, I daresay the man you're following will take it to be his business if you attempt to accost him, and he's liable to take it less well than I am."

A lift of a proud, defiant chin caused her hood to slide back just a smidge. He could see the bridge of her nose, now, and the upper swell of her cheeks.

"I can handle myself," she insisted stubbornly.

He laughed. Directly into her face, he laughed. He couldn't help it. The idea was just so ludicrous.

"You cannot," he retorted. "You are sticking your nose someplace it doesn't belong. Scurry home now, little mouse."

He really should have recognized that this wouldn't work, he would later reason. He should have put all the elements together: her stubborn chin, her outrage, the fact that she was bold enough to come out here in the first place.

But his mind was on other things as the words left him. Could he salvage something of this night? Should he try to spy closer, risking a scuffle with the three guards? Or perhaps he should offer to buy them a drink, see if he could loosen their tongues?

It was because he was distracted by these thoughts that he was genuinely surprised when the little mouse, her tone promising rebellion, scoffed, "And why should I listen to you?"

He snapped his eyes back to the woman. He didn't have time for this. He never had enough time for anything. His whole life was a constant scramble of trying to put right the things his father had broken, by means fair or foul.

But apparently, he had enough conscience left that he couldn't abandon women—even highly annoying ones—in the night.

Well, he reasoned. If he was going to do the right thing, he should at least get some fun out of it, shouldn't he?

So he smiled down at her. It wasn't the smile of the Duke of Hawkins. It was the smile of Andrew Young, adventurer, traveler, and occasional rogue. It was a smile that promised trouble, yes—but so much fun.

The woman's throat bobbed. She took a step back.

Andrew took a step forward.

"You should listen to me," he said, voice low, "because I know what I am about. I am not some delicate lady, playacting at bravery, oblivious to the world around her."

She stepped back again then paused, her body leaning forward even as her feet retreated.

"You're a gentleman," she said. An accusation.

He arched a brow, impressed despite himself. He hadn't thought she'd noticed.

His silence seemed to bolster her confidence, and she waved a hand at his clothing. "Your garments are simple, but too finely made to show you as anything else."

Hm. Clever.

"And you think that makes you safe?" He took another step forward to punctuate this question.

For a moment, he thought she wouldn't retreat. But she did, only to find that he'd maneuvered her up against the brick wall of the alley. She gasped as her back met immovable stone.

It was an upsettingly appealing sound.

"Yes," she said though a breathiness in her tone belied her assertion. "If you were going to do anything to me, you would have done so already."

Andrew should not be getting any ideas. Getting ideas was not a good thing in this circumstance. It was unwise and foolish and…

And some other synonym that he couldn't bring to mind because he was busy churning with ideas.

But the lady was not so much pressing against the wall as she was slumped against it. And her mouth was no longer argumentative; it had grown, instead, lax and languid. Her breath came more quickly.

It was practically an invitation to kiss her. And who was he to decline an invitation from a lady?

Her sharp intake of breath was the last thing he noticed before his mouth was on hers.

There was something about the shape of her lips that tasted like outrage, and Andrew almost pulled back, fearing he'd gone too far, when the woman's hands came to his collar, grasping, clinging, drawing him closer to her. Oh, she was still angry, he noticed with a flash of pleasure as he wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her body more firmly against him. But she was hungry, too.

He obliged.

She was clearly unpracticed in the art of kissing, her lips unmoving against his even as she arched up into his embrace. The notion that he was debauching an innocent should have horrified him, but instead, it sent a dark thrill through him.

When he touched his tongue against her bottom lip, she shivered. Her lips parted—an invitation? A gasp?—and he plundered. For a moment she seemed frozen with shock before giving way to heat. Her tongue caressed his; she gave as good as she got.

She whimpered, and Andrew felt his cock stiffen within his trousers.

It was this motion that made him realize the truth of the matter.

This was a very, very bad idea.

He dropped the girl like she'd caught fire. Only the wall at her back stopped her from stumbling. It was ludicrous and somehow staggeringly comical that her hood still remained atop her head, shielding what was no doubt a flabbergasted expression.

She pressed her finger to her lips.

"What—" she began.

"So you see," he said, cutting her off, grateful that his voice sounded stern and not lustful. "Dangerous things can happen to little mice who scurry about in the dark. You're acting the fool."

"What?" she said again, this time the word laced through with fury.

He did not give her a chance to speak again, to say something that would set him even further off track than he'd already gone. What a ridiculous waste of an evening. What an absurd loss of control.

"Come," he said, grabbing her by the arm. Half dragging her, keeping up a speed too quick for her to mount any protests, he pulled her to the nearest main thoroughfare, where he—thank the Lord—saw a hired hack nearby. He hailed the cab and hauled the girl inside.

"How dare—" He slammed the door on her protests.

"Take her back to Mayfair," he ordered the driver, who was watching these events unfold with the unbothered air of a London man who had seen everything. "She'll tell you were to go from there, but do not take her back to any unsavory location, you hear?"

"Aye, sir," the man said, tipping his hand and accepting the coin that Andrew offered.

Andrew turned on his heel. By the time he heard the clatter of hooves taking off against the stone street, he had already melted halfway back into the dark.