Terror gripped her as she released an ear-splitting scream. But all she heard was laughter as they began carting her toward the dark abyss. She wouldn’t succumb easily to what they planned. She would fight, scratch, claw-

“Hold up, gents! The lady is with me.”

Apparently, the men forcing her off the main pathway were as surprised by the deep confident voice obviously directed at them as she was. They parted slightly, allowing her to view through a narrow gap the shadowy silhouette of a large man with broad shoulders, taller than any man she’d ever seen.

Abruptly, he shouldered his way in, wound his arm around her waist and untangled her from her captor, using his free arm to shove one of the other men aside.

“I mean you no harm,” he murmured quickly in a low, reassuring voice. “If you wish to survive this night with your virtue intact, I suggest you come along with me.”

Everything about him was lost to the murky shadows that accompanied the encroaching fog. His hair was dark, but she couldn’t tell its exact shade. She could feel the power in his hold, strength as well as confidence. Instinctively, she knew he was not a man who forced women. He had no need. Something about him radiated a protective air, and she realized in all likelihood he was the man who’d been following her, the man from Scotland Yard. She didn’t think he was one to fear the devil, and she had an insane thought that perhaps he could help her deal with Rockberry. But even as she thought it, she realized she could no more confide in a stranger than she could a friend. Not about this matter, not when so much-when everything-was at risk.

His gaze shifted away from her, and only then did she remember they had an audience. The three young men were glaring at them.

“Look here, old chap,” the leader said. “We claimed her first.”

“As I’ve already stated, she’s with me.”

“We were told she was available.”

“You were told incorrectly.” With his arm firmly around her, he began to stride away. She had to move her feet quickly to stay in step. But before they’d neared the main path, the three men moved to thwart their leaving. She heard his weary sigh.

“Do you gents really want to fight tonight, knowing you can’t possibly win?”

“There are three of us and only one of you. I like our odds.”

“My odds are better. I grew up on the streets, fighting far worse than you.”

“You sound like a gent.”

“But I fight like the very devil.” The underlying threat of his words reverberated through his voice.

It seemed the men who had accosted her were not only mean-spirited, but stupid. Bulbous swung-

She found herself quickly thrust behind her protector-it was how she was quickly beginning to think of him-as he warded off the blow and sent Bulbous to the ground. The other two attacked him. While he used his shoulder to cause No Chin to stagger back, her rescuer plowed his fist into the fair man’s stomach. With a gasp, Fair doubled over and dropped to his knees. Then her protector rounded on Bulbous as he regained his footing and stood. The thud of flesh hitting flesh as her protector’s knuckles caught the man beneath the chin echoed around them. Bulbous staggered back, arms windmilling. He fell in a graceless sprawl over the ground, unmoving. As his companions tried to get to their feet, her protector made short work of landing two quick punches that returned both to the ground.

“Stay put until we leave,” her protector ordered, before holding out his hand to her. “Let’s go, shall we?”

If he meant her harm, she thought, he had no reason to take her out of here. While the excuse was flimsy, she found herself nodding. She’d had quite enough of this place, and knew that finding Rockberry now was beyond the scope of her meager skills of detection. She took a step toward her rescuer, then remembered-

“My reticule. One of them took it.”

With his foot, he rolled Bulbous over, retrieved her reticule, and halted to stare at the handle of the dagger poking out.

“For protection,” she muttered, taking her reticule and closing it over the dagger.

“Little good it did you. Come along. Stay close. I’ll hire a hansom, see you safely home.”

She had no choice except to let him draw her in and hold her upright, because she realized that she was trembling from the ordeal now that it was over. How could she have been so foolish as to believe she could protect herself in this place by simply not accepting what anyone might offer?

“Have you a name?” he finally asked quietly.

“Eleanor Watkins,” she said without thinking, and then wondered if she should have provided a false name. She’d given so much thought to her plans, and here they were becoming unraveled.

“What were you doing wandering the gardens this time of night, Miss Watkins?”

“I fear I got lost.” She peered up at him, unable to determine if he believed her. “It seems, sir, that I should know the name of the man who rescued me.”

“James Swindler.”

On King’s Road they found a hansom waiting by the curb. Leaning over, he opened the door and handed her up. “What instructions shall I give the driver?” he asked.

Reluctantly, she gave him the address for her lodgings. He called out the information and handed coins up to the driver.

“Take care in the future, Miss Watkins. London can be a very dangerous place for a woman alone.”

Before she could reply, the driver set the vehicle into motion. Glancing back, she saw Mr. Swindler still standing in the street. Large and foreboding, becoming lost to the night, much like the man she’d glimpsed following her.

If he was Rockberry’s man, why had he let her go? And if he wasn’t, why was he following her?


“Her name is Eleanor Watkins.”

“Elisabeth’s sister. I should have guessed. There is an uncanny resemblance.”

James Swindler didn’t turn to acknowledge the quiet muttering from the shadowed corner following his pronouncement of the name of the woman he’d encountered at Cremorne Gardens-after spying on her for two days now.

Swindler’s superior, Sir David Mitchum, sat behind the desk in front of which Swindler stood. As the flame in the lamp was low, failing to cast enough light to reach the corners, Swindler assumed he was to pretend he wasn’t aware that another person inhabited the room. That the man smelled of sandalwood, rich tobacco, and nervous sweat made it a bit difficult for him to blend in with the surroundings. The fact that he’d spoken-apparently surprised by the information that Swindler had imparted-added to the ludicrousness of trying to pretend that Swindler and Sir David were alone in the room.

Unlike the man in the corner, Swindler had the uncanny knack of blending in wherever necessary. Still, Swindler gave no indication that he was aware of the other’s presence. He could pretend with the best of them. Although he found it inconceivable that the man would believe his identity was a secret, especially as Swindler’s investigation of the woman had begun at his lordship’s residence. He suspected the Marquess of Rockberry was a conceited buffoon.

“What more have you managed to learn about the woman?” Sir David asked.

After sending the woman on her way, Swindler had taken another hansom, following at a discreet distance and ordering the driver to let him out on a street near Miss Watkins’s lodgings. He’d walked briskly the remainder of the way, arriving just as Miss Watkins had entered through the front door. He’d waited until he saw a soft light appear in a corner window-fortunate that her hired room faced the street-to approach. By placing a few coins in the pudgy hand of the landlady who’d opened the door, he’d been able to discern a few more details. “She has a hired room. She has only paid for the month and has been in London for a sennight. She is extremely quiet, never causes a disturbance, does not visit with the other residents, and has no callers. Often takes her meal in her room.”

Silence stretched between them before Sir David asked, “Anything else?”

“I fear I have nothing else to add. My instructions were to follow her and not approach her. However, as some young swells were intent upon engaging in a bit of mischief where she was concerned, I thought it prudent to ignore the second part of my orders. They claimed someone informed them that she was ‘available.’ I don’t suppose we have any idea who that someone might have been.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” came from the corner, confirming Swindler’s suspicions that Rockberry himself might have advised the young gents to make short work of her. Apparently patience wasn’t Rockberry’s strong suit.

“A lady wandering through Cremorne Gardens late at night-alone-is bound to run into trouble,” Sir David said. “She’s fortunate you were watching her. I assume she’s none the wiser regarding your task.” If he harbored Swindler’s suspicions regarding Rockberry, he gave no hint of it.

“She knows nothing about my true purpose. I have shared with you all that her landlady was able to reveal. Well, except for the fact that Miss Watkins arrived with one trunk and seems to have a preference for pink. If I might be honest here, from my initial observations, I hardly view Miss Watkins as a threat to anyone.”

“His lordship disagrees.”

Which was the reason that Swindler had been brought in. To determine what the lady was about. So far she had followed Rockberry through the zoological gardens and Hyde Park. Last night she had followed him to his club-Dodger’s Drawing Room, one of London’s more exclusive venues for gentlemen of leisure to enjoy the vices. Tonight, Cremorne Gardens. If it were a crime to follow someone, Swindler would be rotting in Pentonville Prison by now.

“With all due respect, sir, I believe I can serve better elsewhere. I heard someone reported a murder in Whitechapel tonight and-”

“I know you prefer solving crimes after they’ve been committed, Swindler, but our duty first and foremost is to prevent the commission of crimes.”

It was the policeman’s motto, his creed. Prevention. It was the very reason that so many patrolled the streets. But Swindler believed nothing would prevent someone who was intent on committing transgressions. He was more obsessed with securing justice and ensuring that the correct person paid the price for felonious crimes. He had no desire to deal with a pampered lord who was concerned with a slight of a woman whose head barely reached the center of his chest. God help him, he’d felt like a lumbering giant next to her.

“It would help, sir,” Swindler said, “to know what crime we expect her to commit.”

“I believe she intends to kill me,” came from the corner, the voice a low simmer.

Sir David did little more than arch a dark brow at Swindler, who fought not to let his impatience with this situation show. He was very close to wanting to strangle the lord himself. “Do we know why his lordship believes Miss Watkins would wish him ill?”

His superior’s gaze darted over to the corner. Swindler heard the impatient sigh before the voice rumbled from it. “Elisabeth Watkins had her coming out last Season. We danced on occasion. Nothing more.”

There was always more.

“Am I to assume then that it is Lady Elisabeth and Lady Eleanor?” Swindler asked.

“No, her father is merely a viscount. ’Tis Miss Eleanor Watkins.”

Merely? So the man in the corner with his higher rank possessed a superior attitude.

Weary of this dance, Swindler spun around. He could see one outstretched leg and a well-made boot polished to a shine that barely reached into the light. The remainder of the person was lost in the darkness, but still Swindler knew what the man looked like, as the trail had begun at his lordship’s residence. He was not terribly old. He was, however, terribly handsome, with the perfect alignment of features that caused poets to apply ink to paper and wax poetically about the wonders of love. Swindler was damned tempted to address him by name, but for some unknown reason games were being played, and Sir David was tolerating them-which meant that the man either had friends even more superior than Sir David or he’d witnessed Sir David doing something he shouldn’t. “If it was Elisabeth who caught your fancy last Season, why would Eleanor now wish you harm?”

Silence greeted his question.

“Your lordship, I cannot be of much assistance if you are anything less than forthright. I am not one to gossip. You could confess to enjoying the most depraved sexual acts-”

Even with the distance separating them, Swindler felt a ripple of tension emanating from the corner.

“-known to man, and I wouldn’t tell a soul.”

The silence thickened and lengthened. Was that what this was about, then? Some depravity that now haunted his lordship?