Whit did not rise to the bait.

Her brows rose. “And here I was, ready to help you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You’re quite rude, you know.”

He resisted the unwelcome instinct to gape. “I’ve been knocked out and tied up in a strange carriage.”

“Yes, but you must admit the company is diverting, no?” She smiled, the dimple flashing in her right cheek impossible to ignore.

When he did not reply, she said, “Fine then. But it strikes me that you’re in a bind, sir.” She paused, then added, “You see how diverting I can be? In a bind?”

He worked at the ropes at his wrists. Tight, but already giving. Escapable. “I see how reckless you can be.”

“Some find me charming.”

“I do not find things charming,” he replied, continuing to manipulate the ropes, wondering what possessed him to spar with this chatterbox.

“That’s a pity.” It sounded like she meant it, but before he could think of what to say, she added, “No matter. Even if you won’t admit it, you do need help and, as you are bound and I am your travel companion, I’m afraid you are stuck with me.” She crouched by his feet, as though it were all perfectly ordinary, untying the ropes with a soft, deft touch. “You’re lucky I am quite good with knots.”

He grunted his approval, stretching his legs in the confined space when she set him free. “And that you have other plans for your birthday.”

She hesitated, her cheeks pinkening at the words. “Yes.”

Whit would never understand what made him press further. “What plans?”

Her ridiculous eyes, an impossible color and too big for her face, shuttered. “Plans that for once don’t involve cleaning up whatever mess you are.”

“Next time I am clubbed unconscious, I shall endeavor to do it where I shan’t be in your way, my lady.”

She grinned, that dimple flashing like a private jest. “See that you do.” Before he could reply, she said, “Though I suppose it won’t be an issue in the future. We clearly don’t run in the same circles.”

“We run in them tonight.”

Her grin became a slow, easy smile, and Whit couldn’t help but linger on it. The carriage began to slow, and she peeked out the curtain. “We’re nearly there,” she said quietly. “It’s time for you to go, sir. I’m sure you’ll agree that neither of us will have any interest in you being discovered.”

“My hands,” he said, even as the ropes slackened further.

She shook her head. “I can’t risk you taking revenge.”

He met her gaze without hesitation. “My revenge is not a risk. It’s a certainty.”

“I’ve no doubt of that. But I can’t risk you taking it through me. Not tonight.” She reached past him for the door handle, speaking at his ear, above the rattle of wheels and horses from the street beyond. “As I’ve said . . .”

“You have plans,” he finished for her, turning toward her, unable to resist her scent, like an almond teacake, sweet temptation.

She met his eyes. “Yes.”

“Tell me the plan, and I’ll let you go.” He’d find her.

That smile again. “You’re very arrogant, sir. Must I remind you that I’m the one letting you go?”

“Tell me.” The command was rough.

He saw the change in her. Watched hesitation turn to curiosity. To bravery. And then, like a gift, she whispered, “Perhaps I should show you, instead.”

Christ, yes.

She kissed him, pressing her lips to his, soft and sweet and inexperienced and tasting like wine, tempting as hell. He worked double time to free his hands. To show this strange, curious woman just how willing he was to see her plans through.

She freed him first. There was a tug at his wrists, and the ropes loosened a heartbeat before she lifted her lips from his. He opened his eyes, saw the gleam of a small pocketknife in her hand. She’d changed her mind. Cut him loose.

To capture her. To resume the kiss.

As she’d warned, however, the lady had other plans.

Before he could touch her, the carriage slowed to take a corner, and she opened the door at his back. “Good-bye.”

Instinct had Whit turning as he fell, tucking his chin, protecting his head, and propelling himself into a roll, even as a single thought thundered through him.

She’s getting away.

He came to a stop against the wall of a nearby tavern, scattering the collection of men outside.

“Oy!” one called out, coming for him. “All right, bruv?”

Whit came to his feet, shaking out his arms, rolling his shoulders back, shifting his weight back and forth to test muscle and bone—ensuring all was in working order before extracting two watches from his pocket and checking their clockwork. Half-nine.

“Cor! I ain’t never seen anyone right ’imself from such a thing so fast,” the man said, reaching out to clap Whit on the shoulder. The hand stilled before it settled, however, as eyes set on Whit’s face, immediately widening in recognition. Warmth turned to fear as the man took a step back. “Beast.”

Whit lifted his chin in acknowledgment of the name, even as awareness threaded through him. If this man knew him—knew his name—

He turned, his gaze narrowing on the curve in the dark cobblestone street where the carriage had disappeared, along with its passenger, deep into the maze of tangled streets that marked Covent Garden.

Satisfaction thrummed through him.

She wasn’t getting away after all.

Chapter Three

“You pushed him out?” Nora’s shock was clear as she peeked inside the empty carriage after Hattie had descended. “I thought we didn’t wish for his death?”

Hattie ran her fingers over the silk of the mask she’d donned before exiting the carriage. “He’s not dead.”

She’d hung out the door of the carriage long enough to make sure of it—long enough to marvel at the way he’d launched himself into a roll before springing to his feet, as though he were frequently dispatched from carriages.

She supposed that, since she’d discovered him bound in her carriage that very evening, he might well be tossed from conveyances regularly. She’d watched him nonetheless, holding her breath until he’d come to his feet, unharmed.

“He woke, then?” Nora asked.

Hattie nodded, her fingers coming to her lips, the feel of his firm, smooth kiss a lingering echo there, along with the taste of something . . . lemon?

“And?”

She looked to her friend. “And what?”

Nora rolled her eyes. “Who is he?”

“He didn’t say.”

A pause. “No, I don’t suppose he would.”

No. Not that I wouldn’t give a great deal to know.

“You should ask Augie.” Hattie’s gaze shot to her friend. Had she spoken aloud? Nora grinned. “Do you forget that I know your mind as well as my own?”

Nora and Hattie had been friends for a lifetime—more than one, Nora’s mother used to say, watching the two of them play beneath the table in her back garden, telling secrets. Elisabeth Madewell, Duchess of Holymoor, and Hattie’s mother had existed together on the outskirts of the aristocracy. Neither had received a warm welcome, fate having intervened to make an Irish actress and a shop girl from Bristol into a duchess and countess, respectively. They’d been destined to be friends long before Hattie’s father had received his life peerage, two inseparable souls who did everything together, including birth daughters—Nora and Hattie, born within weeks of each other, raised as close as sisters, never given a chance not to love one another as such.