Chapter 3

I hate to be a bother.”

“Good Lord, Jim,” Lucian Langdon, the Earl of Claybourne, said as he poured whiskey into two tumblers. “I’ve bothered you often enough.”

“You’re a lord, it’s your right.”

Claybourne scowled at him. They’d grown up on the streets together, working for Feagan, until it was discovered that Luke was the lost heir to a title. Swindler had never felt quite comfortable around the aristocracy, but then he felt comfortable around few. He was a skeptic at best when it came to someone else’s good intentions. No doubt a result of his father’s good intentions leaving him with a wounded soul that still, after all these years, refused to heal.

Claybourne handed a goblet of wine to his wife, Catherine. She was a lovely woman. Her blond hair almost reminded Swindler of Eleanor Watkins’s, although Miss Watkins’s made him think of moonbeams woven together. He imagined her hair would be soft but catch on his rough fingers. He imagined those same fingers abrading her delicate skin as he brought her pleasure. To spare her any discomfort, on her most sensitive flesh, he would use his mouth, his tongue-

“Jim?”

He snapped himself free of the dreams that had begun to haunt him ever since his encounter with Miss Watkins in the park and took the tumbler Claybourne offered. “Thank you.”

Claybourne sat on the sofa beside his wife, stretching his arm across her shoulders, so his fingers could casually stroke her bare arm. Swindler doubted he’d have been as informal were his guest a lord. Or perhaps he would have if their friendship had been woven in the squalor that was the rookeries.

“You had some questions to ask of Catherine,” Claybourne prodded.

Swindler took a sip of the whiskey, relishing the taste and the burn. He felt his muscles begin to relax. They’d been tense ever since he’d escorted Miss Watkins to her lodgings. Last night he’d been surprised to discover that she was not staying in one of the better parts of London. As his own lodgings were not that far from hers, he was well aware of what the accommodations offered. They were adequate but nothing fancy.

“Yes. I’m curious about a Miss Elisabeth Watkins. She was the daughter of a viscount.”

“Watkins?” Catherine’s delicate brow pleated. “I believe I’ve heard mention of a Viscount Watkins, but I fear I know very little about him. Sterling might, although I suspect it unlikely. Of course, he’s not due to return to London for another few days.”

Swindler appreciated what she wasn’t saying-that the man was in the South of France making love with his new wife, with Frannie. What surprised Swindler was that the thought of her with another man didn’t bring with it the usual sense of loss. Since his encounter with Miss Watkins this afternoon, she had been the one to occupy his mind, as though no one else mattered.

“I’ll be content with anything you know,” Swindler assured her, hoping to gather a few more morsels about Miss Watkins in his endeavors to learn about her father.

“If he’s the man I’m thinking of, he rarely comes to London. Doesn’t even have a residence in town.”

Had word not even passed through the ranks that he’d died?

“Elisabeth apparently had her coming out last Season,” Swindler told her.

Catherine distractedly patted Claybourne’s thigh. “I fear I was far too caught up in my own affairs last Season to give much attention to someone’s coming out. I’m sorry.”

Claybourne’s hand ceased its stroking and closed around her upper arm, offering strength and comfort. It was last Season that their lives had all become irrevocably entwined.

“You might inquire of Jack’s wife,” Catherine continued. “Before Olivia went into mourning, she may have met Miss Watkins earlier in the Season.”

The widowed Duchess of Lovingdon created something of a scandal by marrying before the proper period of mourning had passed-an even greater scandal by her selection of a husband-Jack Dodger. Wealthy though he might be, he owned an exclusive gentlemen’s club that was almost as infamous as he.

“Apparently Elisabeth caught Lord Rockberry’s fancy,” Swindler offered, hoping to prod some memory. Surely they’d not been free of gossip.

Catherine grimaced. “He fancies himself quite the catch, but I’ve never known him to offer for anyone. Did he take advantage of her?”

“Why would you think that?”

“If her father is as I’ve heard, without two pennies to rub together, it’s unlikely she’d come with a substantial dowry. She could be desperate enough to believe a cad’s promises. I fear not all gentlemen are in fact ‘gentlemen.’”

Rockberry certainly fell into the category of not a gentleman. “Elisabeth apparently met a tragic end. Her sister, Eleanor, is in London. She’s been following Rockberry around town. I suspect she holds him responsible in some manner, and he has the mien of a man harboring dark secrets and guilt.”

Since Swindler possessed the same mien, he recognized it when he saw it in others.

“Oh, poor girls,” Catherine said. “Elisabeth and Eleanor. Who is acting as Eleanor’s benefactor to introduce her to Society?”

“She’s not here for Society, but rather to poke sticks at Rockberry.”

“That’s very dangerous indeed. Rockberry won’t tolerate that for long. Perhaps I should speak with her.”

Swindler shouldn’t have been surprised by her offer. Her nature to help those in trouble had brought her into Claybourne’s life. He didn’t know quite how to respond. He knew only that whatever Miss Watkins needed, he wished to be the person to provide it. “It’s probably too soon to involve you. I’ve spoken with her. I don’t believe she’s a true threat. She may irritate Rockberry, but I don’t think she’s capable of inflicting any lasting harm.”

“Don’t take offense, Jim, but I suspect you underestimate the determination of aristocratic ladies when they’ve decided to take matters into their own hands.”

“Stubborn more like,” Claybourne grumbled, and she jabbed him in the ribs.

Rather than get angry with her, Claybourne gave her a heated look that even Swindler could interpret as meaning she’d pay dearly for it later in their bedchamber. He didn’t want to think about the bed he’d sleep in alone tonight. He could seek out company, but he thought anyone other than Miss Watkins would leave him unsatisfied. Not that he had any plans to lure her into his bed. She was, after all, a lady-but that didn’t mean he hadn’t already given a great deal of thought to the pleasure he’d experience in having her there. He could well imagine her hands skimming over his bare chest, her mouth nibbling-

“Right, then,” he said, setting his tumbler aside and coming to his feet while he could still stand without embarrassing himself. “I’ll keep your offer in mind should I have any further dealings with Miss Watkins.”

Rising, Claybourne assisted Catherine from the sofa. “Please do,” she said.

“I’ll see you out,” Claybourne said as he bussed a quick kiss across Catherine’s cheek, giving her more promises for what might transpire later.

Swindler didn’t envy what his friend possessed, but for the first time he missed that he wasn’t in possession of it as well.

In the hallway, Claybourne said, “If you believe dangers are about, I would appreciate your not getting Catherine involved. My wife has the heart and courage of a lioness. I don’t know that my own heart could stand seeing her in harm’s way again.”

“I suspect Rockberry is more bark than bite. Otherwise, he’d have seen to the matter himself. As for Miss Watkins…I think she simply wishes to annoy him for a short time. Then I suppose she’ll return home.”

He wasn’t quite certain why he felt sorrow over that notion. It wasn’t as though anything could ever exist between them. She was the daughter of a viscount, for God’s sake. He the son of a thief.

“As you’re well aware, I’ve only recently become accepted by my peers,” Claybourne said. “I could make some discreet inquiries, see what’s what.”

“It’s probably best if I hold this matter as close to the vest as possible for now. I don’t doubt your ability to exhibit discretion, but as I’ve been assigned the task, I’ll handle the inquiries.”

“Scotland Yard is having you follow the girl around? You must be chafing at the bit to move on to more important matters.”

Strangely, after the encounter in the park, he wasn’t nearly as impatient with this duty as he had been the night before. “We are charged with preventing crime. Rockberry believes she aims to kill him.”

Remnants of regret washed over Claybourne’s face. He’d once killed a man who had hurt Frannie. “Maybe I should speak with the lady. Even when the murder is justified, it’s not easy to live with.”

“If you hadn’t killed him, I would have.”

Claybourne shook his head. “Still, your lady should know that vengeance comes at a high price.”

“I don’t think she has it in her to kill him.”

“I hope you’re right. If you’re not grumbling about the assignment, then the lady must be holding your interest.”

“I misjudged her upon first meeting her. It’s not a mistake I often make.”

“I’ve never known you to misjudge a person.”

But he had. Somehow he had.

Claybourne gave Swindler’s shoulder a firm, hard clap. “Just know we’re here if you need us.”

Not two minutes ago Claybourne had been asking him not to involve them, and now it seemed he’d reversed his stance. Swindler knew that if it came to it, they’d help him. Feagan’s children always stood together, even when their lives were lived apart.

“Actually, I do have a favor to ask.”

“Ask, and if it’s within my power it’s yours.”

“Could I borrow a carriage tomorrow? An open one if the day is sunny. Closed if it’s not.”

Claybourne grinned. “Putting out a bit of honey?”

Swindler shrugged. “If I must endure this assignment, I see no reason not to experience a bit of enjoyment while seeing to the task.”


Swindler was almost to the door of his lodging house when he turned around and started back up the street. He didn’t know why he was so restless tonight. Perhaps because even with Eleanor’s promise, he didn’t quite trust her to stay indoors. He knew he couldn’t keep watch over her twenty-four hours a day, but he didn’t want her following Rockberry either. Not when he knew he wouldn’t be around anyway. He didn’t trust the man not to take matters into his own hands and harm her.

It was nearly half past ten. As Swindler neared her lodging house, he saw her silhouette limned by the pale light spilling out through her window. Relief swamped him because she wasn’t stirring up trouble with Rockberry. He stopped and leaned against a tree in the shadows.

It appeared she was brushing her hair. Good Lord, how long was it? Based on her movements, it had to reach past her waist. One hand glided the brush through the strands, while the other followed, smoothing them. He imagined the brush in his hand, the silk of her hair pooled in his lap as he sat behind her. Brushing, stroking. Gathering it up and burying his face in its abundant softness. There had been little enough softness in his life, and he’d always refrained from admitting how desperately he wanted it.

The women in his life never stayed for long, because he couldn’t give them what they wanted. He cared for them too much to pretend he loved them, but not enough to truly love them.

Miss Watkins wouldn’t be in his life for long either. He would slowly earn her trust-slowly because of a sudden he wasn’t in any hurry to be rid of her-and when she confided everything, he would convince her to leave Rockberry alone. Or perhaps, depending on the circumstances, he would see to the matter for her. But only after she believed that he cared for her would she open up to him. So convince her that he held a fondness for her, he would. It wouldn’t be much of a falsehood. He did feel a stirring of feelings for her, just not the depth of emotion a lady such as she deserved.

She bent her head forward and pulled her hair up and over until it fell like a curtain in front of her face. He rubbed the back of his neck, his attention focused on hers bared. He could almost feel her skin beneath his lips as he skimmed his mouth along her spine, as he pressed a kiss against the soft skin beneath her ear. He would trail his tongue along the shell, nibble on her lobe. Turning her in his arms, he would continue the journey until he had tasted her throat, and then he would settle his mouth over hers for a long, lingering kiss that would have her body softening while his hardened.

She flung her head back and began again the process of smoothing what she’d sent into disarray. The night had grown unseasonably warm. He was of a mind to remove his jacket, but even as he thought it, he realized the air held a chill to it. It wasn’t the night, then, that was causing his body to sweat or his breathing to become labored. It was the nymph in the window. He could almost believe that she knew he was watching, that she was putting on a private performance for him.