He scrubbed the sleeve of his coat over his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. "We'll talk inside."

The footman opened the carriage door, and Gentry--John--swung down easily and reached for Sophia. She put her hands on his shoulders, felt him grasp her waist, and he lowered her with great care to the ground. However, her knees quivered like jelly, and she was surprised when her legs began to collapse.

Gentry caught her at once, his hands hooking beneath her arms. "Steady. I've got you. I'm sorry--you've had a shock."

"I'm all right," she said, feebly trying to push him away.

Maintaining a supportive arm behind her back, Gentry guided her toward the house. It was a converted building that had once been a tavern. Sophia could not help gaping at her surroundings, which looked like something out of a nightmare. This was an area of London that even the bravest runners would have avoided at all cost. The people who skulked through tortuously twisted streets hardly seemed like humans. They were gray-faced and filthy, almost ghostlike in their tattered clothes.

Vermin scuttled over piles of refuse in the street, while the aromas of cesspools and drains combined with the fumes from a nearby slaughterhouse into a smell so rank that it actually caused her eyes to water. There was noise and tumult everywhere; cries of beggars and urchins, sounds of pigs and chickens, drunken brawls, even the occasional crack of a pistol.

Glancing at her face, Gentry smiled faintly at her reaction to the place. "It's not exactly Mayfair, is it? Don't worry, you'll get used to the smell in no time. I hardly notice it now."

"Why do you choose to live here?" she asked, nearly gagging on the foul air. "People say you have money. You must be able to afford something better than this."

"Oh, I have high-kick offices in town," he assured her, "where I meet with wealthy clients or politicians and such. But this area is where all the flash houses and prisons are, and I need easy access to them." Seeing her confusion at the Cockney slang, he explained further as he guided her up a flight of rickety stairs. "Flashes are successful thieves. They live in flash houses, where they are somewhat safe from the law and are free to gamble, drink, and make plans."

"And you are the most successful flash of all?" Sophia asked, accompanying him through an astonishing maze of secret corridors, staircases, and dark recesses.

"Some would say so," he replied with no trace of shame. "But most of the time I am a thief-taker--and a damned good one, too."

"You were not meant to live like this," she murmured, appalled at what had become of her brother.

"And you were meant to be a servant?" he pointed out sardonically. "Don't sit in judgment, Sophia. We've both done what was necessary to survive."

They approached a heavy door at the end of a cramped passageway, and Gentry reached to open it for her.

As Sophia stepped inside, she was stunned to find an elegantly decorated set of rooms. Papered walls were covered with gold-framed Baroque looking glasses and fine paintings. The French furnishings were heavily gilded and upholstered in brocade, and the windows were swathed in blue-gray velvet.

Stunned to find such elaborate rooms in a ramshackle building, Sophia glanced at her brother with wide eyes. He smiled casually. "Just because I have to stay on West Street doesn't mean I have to live badly."

Feeling weak after receiving what was surely the greatest shock of her life, Sophia made her way to an overstuffed chair. Gentry went to a sideboard, poured two drinks, and brought one to her. "Have some of this," he said, pressing a glass into her hand.

She obeyed, grateful for the smooth burn of the brandy as it slid down her throat. Her brother sat beside her, tossing down his drink as if it were water. His gaze fastened on her, and he shook his head with apparent wonder. "I can't believe you are really here. For years I've thought about you, never knowing what had become of you."

"You could have let me know that you were still alive," she said crisply.

His face was suddenly expressionless. "Yes, I could have."

"Why didn't you?"

He stared at a stray drop of brandy in his empty glass, rolling the vessel gently in his long fingers. "The main reason was that you were better off not knowing. My life is dangerous, not to mention unsavory, and I didn't want you to bear the shame of having a brother like me. I was certain that you would have married a long time ago, to some decent man in the village. I thought you would have had children by now." His voice became edged with baleful ire. "And instead you're aspinster !" He made the word sound like a curse. "For God's sake, Sophia, why are you a damned servant? AtBow Street , of all places!"

"Who would have wanted to marry me, John?" she asked ironically. "I had no dowry, no family, nothing to recommend me except an attractive face, which I can assure you held no great value for the farmers and workmen in the village. The only offer of marriage I ever received was from the local baker, a fat old man who was nearly twice my age. Working for Cousin Ernestine was far more appealing. And as for Bow Street...I like it there."

She was tempted to tell her brother about her shortlived affair with Anthony, how she had been ill-used and betrayed. However, in light of his wicked reputation, she decided to keep that matter private. For all she knew, he would arrange to have Anthony killed or tortured in some way.

Gentry made a scornful noise at the mention of Bow Street. "It's no place for you," he scoffed. "Those runners are no better than the thugs who work for me. And if that coldhearted bastard Cannon has mistreated you, I'll--"

"No," Sophia cut in hastily. "No one has mistreated me, John. And Sir Ross is very kind."

"Oh, of course he is," Gentry said with purest sarcasm.

The reminder that her lover and her brother were sworn enemies caused a stab of pain in her chest. This was going to change everything, she thought with sick trepidation. Ross had overlooked so much about her. But the fact that her brother was Nick Gentry, the man Ross despised most...well, that could not be dismissed. The situation was so dreadful and strange that she felt a wobbly smile touch her lips.

"What are you thinking?" Gentry asked.

She shook her head, the smile vanishing. There was no need for him to know about her romantic relationship with the Chief Magistrate of Bow Street. Not when that relationship was very possibly finished. Managing to shove the despairing thoughts to the back of her mind, she studied her brother intently.

The promise of handsomeness that she had seen in his boyhood had been more than fulfilled. At twenty-five, he possessed a sleek, hard-boned grace that reminded her of a tiger. His features were dramatic, precisely angled, the chin sharply defined, the nose jutting in a straight, strong line. The thick arcs of his eyebrows surmounted a remarkable pair of eyes. They were of a shade of blue so dark that the black pupils nearly vanished into the intense irises. However, the extravagant masculine beauty of his face did not conceal a ruthlessness that troubled her deeply. Gentry seemed capable of almost anything, as if he could lie, steal, or even kill without a flicker of remorse. There was no softness in him, and Sophia guessed that any sense of mercy or compassion had been driven from him long ago. But he was still her brother.

Wonderingly, she lifted her hand to the side of his face. He remained still beneath her cradling fingers. "John, I never allowed myself to hope that you were still alive."

Gently he took her hand from his face, as if he found it difficult to tolerate another person's touch. "I was shocked when I saw you in the Bow Street strong room," he muttered. "I knew who you were at once, even before I heard your name." His jaw flexed tightly.

"When that bastard Cannon shouted at you, it was all I could do to keep from ripping his throat out--"

"No," she interrupted swiftly. "He was concerned for me. He was trying to protect me."

The ferocious glitter remained in his eyes. "You were born a lady, Sophia. No one has the right to treat you like a servant."

A weary, rueful smile pulled at her lips. "Yes, I was born a lady...and you were born to be a gentleman. But no one would mistake us for members of first society now, would they?" When he refused to respond to the comment, she continued. "I have heard terrible things about you. Or rather, about Nick Gentry."

"Call me Nick," he said flatly. "John Sydney no longer exists. I remember very little of my life before I was sent to the prison hulk. I don'twant to remember." A cold grin flashed across his face. "I'm not guilty of half the things I'm accused of. But I encourage the rumors, and I never deny even the worst of them. It suits me to have an evil reputation. I want people to regard me with fear and respect. Good for business."

"Are you saying that you haven't stolen from people, and framed and betrayed and blackmailed--"

Gentry interrupted her with a sound that expressed pure annoyance. "I'm not a saint."

Despite Sophia's distress, she almost wanted to laugh at the understatement.

His eyes narrowed. "I only take advantage of people who are so dull-witted that theydeserve to be badly used. Besides, I never get credit for the good I've done."

"Such as?"

"I'm a damned good thief-taker. My men and I have captured almost twice as many criminals as Sir Ross and his runners."

"People say that you sometimes manufacture evidence. That you use evil methods to force confessions that may not be true."

"I do what needs to be done," he said flatly. "And if the criminals I arrest are not guilty of one particular crime, they are usually guilty of at least a dozen others."

"But why don't you--"

"Enough," he said shortly, standing and striding back to the sideboard. "I don't want to talk about my work."

Sophia watched as he poured another brandy and drank it in a few careless gulps. She could hardly believe that this truculent stranger was her brother. "Nick," she said, testing his name on her tongue. "Why did you give me those presents? It nearly drove me mad, wondering who had sent them. And I was terrified that Sir Ross would think I was carrying on with a secret lover."

"Sorry," he muttered, flashing her a contrite smile. "I wanted to be a--a benefactor. To give you the things you deserve. I never meant for us to meet. But the need to see you became so strong that I couldn't bear it any longer."

"And that is why you approached me at Silverhill Park?"

He gave her the smile of a naughty schoolboy. "I liked the idea of doing it under Cannon's nose. And I knew I could slip in and out of a large crowd without being caught. The masquerade made it almost too easy."

"Was that necklace stolen?"

"Of course not," he said indignantly. "I bought it for you."

"But what am I to do with such a necklace? I could never wear it!"

"You will wear it," he said. "I have a fortune, Sophia. I'm going to buy you a house somewhere...France or Italy...where you can live like a lady. I'll give you an account so that you'll never have to worry about money again."

Her mouth hung open as she stared at him. "John...Nick ...I don't want to live abroad! Everything that holds value for me is here."

"Oh?" His voice became dangerously soft. "What would keep you here?"

CHAPTER 14

The roar of angry demonstrators penetrated the walls of the Red Lion tavern on Threadneedle. A crowd huddled inside, necks craning for the best view of the table where Ross sat with the tailors' and employers' representatives. During the first hour of negotiations for imposing new wage structures, Ross had listened to grievances from both sides. As tempers were running high, Ross deduced that the debates would last through the afternoon and well into the night. Thinking momentarily of Sophia and how much he wanted to go home to her, he fought to suppress his impatience.

A buxom waitress who had soaked herself in cologne water to mask other, far more pungent scents sidled up to Ross with the jug of coffee he had requested."'Ere you are, Sir Ross," she purred, deliberately brushing one massive breast against his shoulder as she leaned over him. "Whot else for yer appetite, sir? Some Welsh rabbit or apple puffs?" She put her broad face next to his and said meaningfully, "Ye can 'aveanyfing ye wants, Sir Ross."