“Hardly a needle.” She stuck out like a sore thumb. Always had.

He ignored her. “Waiting for a man who met your . . . what did you call them? Qualifications?”

Her qualifications had changed. Not that he would ever know that. She turned her head, her gaze meeting his, full of fire. “I am told he is exceedingly thorough.”

“Mmm,” he said, before he added, “I found you first.”

“Then we shall call it even.” She barely recognized her breathless words.

“Mmm.” He kissed her then, deep and thorough, his hands moving to the shawl that covered her destroyed dress, and she held her breath, knowing what was to come. More kissing. More touching. And all the rest. Everything.

But before he could undo the knot that hid her from him, a knock came, clear and firm at the door.

They froze.

The door opened barely—not even enough for a head to poke through. Just enough for words to carry in. “My lady, your carriage has returned.”

Dammit. Nora. Had it already been two hours?

“I must go.” She pushed at his shoulders.

He moved instantly, stepping back from her, giving her the space for which she had asked and did not want. He extracted the watches from his pocket and checked them both with such graceful speed that Hattie wondered if he even knew he’d done it. “Somewhere to be?”

“Home.”

“That was quick,” he said.

“I was not expecting such scintillating conversation.” She paused, then added, “Though conversation is not a thing one gets often with you, is it?” After a long moment of silence, she smiled, unable to stop herself. “Precisely.”

She crossed the room, collected her cloak, and turned back to him. “How will I find you? To—” Collect. She nearly said collect. Her cheeks blazed.

One side of his beautiful mouth twitched, the corner barely rising before it fell. But he knew what she had been thinking, without question. And then he said, “I shall find you.”

It was impossible. He’d never find her in Mayfair. But she could return to the Garden. Would. They’d made promises, after all, and Hattie intended for them to be kept.

But she didn’t have time to point all that out. Nora was below, with the carriage, and Covent Garden was no place for nighttime lingering. Augie would know how to find him. She let her smile turn full grin. “Another challenge, then?”

Something like surprise flashed in his eyes, chased away by something else—admiration? She turned away from him and set her hand to the door handle, pleasure thrumming through her. Pleasure and excitement and—

She turned back. “I’m sorry I tossed you from a carriage.”

His response was instantaneous. “I’m not.”

The smile remained on her lips as she wove her way through the darkened hallways of 72 Shelton Street, the place where she had intended to start anew. To claim herself and the world that was rightfully hers.

And perhaps she had done. Though not quite the way she had expected.

Something whispered through her. Something that hinted at freedom.

Hattie exited the building to find Nora leaning against the coach, cap low on her brow, hands deep in her trouser pockets. White teeth flashed as Hattie approached.

“How was your time?” Hattie beat her friend to the start.

Nora shrugged. “Found a toff to race and lightened his pockets.”

Hattie shook her head with a little laugh. “You know you’re a toff, too, don’t you?”

Her friend feigned shock. “You take that back.” When Hattie laughed, Nora tilted her head. “Don’t keep me in suspense—how was it?”

Hattie chose her reply carefully. “Unexpected.”

Nora’s brows rose as she opened the coach door and lowered the step. “That’s high praise. Did he meet your qualifications?”

Hattie froze, one foot on the step. Qualifications. She patted the pockets sewn into her gown. “Oh, no.”

“What?” Nora leaned in and whispered, altogether too loudly, “Hattie. You did use a French letter, did you not? I was assured they would be provided.”

“Nora!” Hattie could barely summon admonishment. She was too busy panicking. She didn’t have her list. It had been in her hand. And then—

The man called Beast had kissed her.

And now it was gone.

She turned and looked up at the happily lit windows of 72 Shelton Street. There he was, in a beautiful, wide window on the third floor—no longer covered. Now, it was open to the world, so all could see him, a backlit shadow—a perfect specter in the darkness.

He raised his hand and pressed something to the window. A rectangle she identified instantly.

Beast, indeed.

She narrowed her gaze. He had won this round, and Hattie didn’t care for it. She turned to Nora. “Take me to my brother.”

“Now? It’s the dead of night.”

“Then let’s hope we do not ruin his sleep.”

Chapter Six

Lord August Sedley, only son and youngest child of the Earl of Cheadle, was not asleep when Hattie and Nora entered the kitchens of Sedley House half an hour later. He was very much awake, bleeding on the kitchen table.

“Where’ve you been,” Augie whined from his place at the edge of the table when Hattie and Nora entered the room, bloody rag pressed to his bare thigh. “I needed you.”

“Oh, dear,” Nora said, coming up short just inside the room. “Augie’s not wearing trousers.”

“This bodes ill,” Hattie said.

“You’re damn right it bodes ill.” Augie spat his outrage. “I was knifed, and you weren’t here and no one knew where to find you and I’ve been bleeding for hours.”

Hattie clenched her teeth at the words—reminding herself that entitlement was Augie’s neutral state. “Why on earth didn’t you ask Russell to take care of it?” Her brother took a swig from the whiskey bottle in his free hand. “Where is he?”

“He left.”

“Of course.” Hattie did not disguise her disgust as she went for a bowl of water and a length of cloth. Russell—Augie’s sometimes valet, sometimes friend, sometimes man-at-arms, and constant pest—was perfectly useless at the best of times. “Why would he stay, as you’re only bleeding all over the damn kitchen.”

“Still breathing, though,” Nora said happily, as she opened a cupboard and fetched a small wooden box, placing it next to Augie.

“Barely,” Augie grouched. “I had to yank that damn thing out of me.”

Hattie’s gaze lit on the impressive knife cast aside on the oak. The blade was eight inches long, with a curved edge that would have shone in the darkness if it weren’t so doused in blood.

If it weren’t so doused in blood, it would have been beautiful.

She knew such a thought was not appropriate for the moment, but still, Hattie thought it, wanting to pick up the weapon and test its weight; she’d never seen something so wicked. So dangerous and powerful.

Except the man to whom it belonged.

Because she knew instantly, without question, this knife belonged to the man who called himself Beast.

“What happened?” she asked, coming to set the bowl on the table and inspect Augie’s still bleeding thigh. “You shouldn’t have taken the knife out.”