So Rockberry had seen precisely what he himself saw when he looked at the lady. And Rockberry had taken advantage of the girl. Unfortunately, Swindler could understand that as well, because he was finding it very difficult to be near Miss Watkins and not touch her, not lean over and kiss her.

“It’s funny you should ask me about Elisabeth,” she said, her attention on the sunlight dappling the leaves above. “I was just sitting here lamenting that a gentleman had never taken Elisabeth rowing. Or at least she didn’t write of it in her journal. It’s quite pleasant.”

“I must agree. I’ve never before been rowing.”

She gave him an impish grin. “I gathered, but you mastered it quickly enough.”

“I tend to be a quick study. Growing up on the streets, I learned that the child who survived was the one who adapted swiftly to the unexpected.”

Her tongue darted out to touch her upper lip, and his gut clenched. He wondered what those sweet lips tasted of. “You mentioned that you were borrowing Lord Claybourne’s carriage and also that you sometimes move about in upper circles. How is it you know the nobility if you grew up on the streets?”

“Are you at all familiar with Lord Claybourne’s story?”

“No, my father never felt comfortable around the aristocracy. I think because his finances were never comparable to most. He always looked exactly as he was: an impoverished lord. He didn’t mingle with the other lords. So I fear I don’t know Lord Claybourne.”

“Just as well. He has-or had-a scandalous reputation. It’s settled down a bit since he married Lady Catherine, sister to the Duke of Greystone, but you probably don’t know her either.” Especially as Catherine had indicated that she didn’t know Eleanor. “Be that as it may, Claybourne lived on the streets as I did. His parents were murdered and he was lost for a while.”

“How horrible!”

“Yes, it was. Dreadfully so. Although you won’t hear him complain about it. Gave him a life unlike that of any other lord. We lived with a kidsman who went by the name of Feagan. Through him we learned to excel at thievery. When Claybourne was fourteen, he ran into a bit of trouble and was arrested.” He didn’t see the need to reveal that the trouble had involved his murdering a man. “As a result, he came to the attention of the Earl of Claybourne, who declared him his long lost grandson. When he took in his grandson, he took in his friends as well. So for a time I lived in St. James and was taught how to give the appearance of being a gentleman.”

“You chose your words so carefully, Mr. Swindler. ‘Appearance’ of being one? Do you not consider yourself a gentleman?”

He grinned. “Only when it suits my purpose. Often I’m more a scoundrel than gentleman, Miss Watkins.”

The heat in his eyes caused her heart to gallop. Oh, she was treading on very dangerous ground here, and well she knew it.

“Is that what you were doing out so late at Cremorne? Scoundreling?”

His rich, dark laughter echoed around them. She thought it was as wondrous a sound as the sea roaring onto shore. If she wasn’t careful, she feared she might find herself being even more taken with him.

“Is that even a word?” he asked.

“I’m simply trying to determine if it was providence or simply dumb luck that brought you to my rescue.”

“Does it truly matter how our paths crossed?”

She smiled at him. “No, I suppose not. Tell me something else about yourself, Mr. Swindler.”

Something else? He was suddenly at a loss for words. He couldn’t tell her about the Whitechapel murder.

Because sleep had eluded him last night, he’d gone to the mortuary where they’d taken the woman they’d found in Whitechapel. In spite of Sir David’s orders, he’d been unable to let the dead lie without at least trying to determine the story. The woman had been beaten beyond recognition. She’d been discovered sprawled in the alleyway wearing only a silver choker. While Swindler had spent many of the early hours of the morning interviewing those in the area where she was found, striving to at least determine a name for the victim, his thoughts had been elsewhere. It was unlike him not to remain focused on the task at hand.

But this morning every fair-haired woman had caused him to think about Miss Watkins. Every question he asked had prodded him to wonder what questions he should ask of her. Every person peering around a corner trying to discern why he was there reminded him of his responsibility to cease her annoying Rockberry. He was striving to solve a murder that was not his assignment, and he’d been distracted by memories of Miss Watkins: her smiles, her laughter, her innocence.

But he could tell her none of that. Nor could he discuss any other murders that he’d investigated. While they fascinated him, they’d no doubt alarm her. His life suddenly seemed dreadfully dull. The only hope he had of an interesting conversation would come from her.

“Just as you’d never been to London, I’ve never been beyond London,” he finally told her. “Tell me of your home.”

“You’ve never been outside of London?”

Swindler heard the incredulity in her voice. “No. Would I need a map?”

She laughed, and he wanted to capture the delightful sound and store it in a wooden box, to be heard whenever he lifted the lid. He was not usually so filled with fanciful thoughts, but she charmed him with little more than her presence.

“I daresay, you most certainly would, although the railways make travel a bit easier.”

“So tell me about your home.”

“It’s a small stone cottage built near the cliffs. The music of the sea is a constant refrain, but it’s not nearly as noisy as the city. I think that surprised me most-all the different sounds that come together. It’s never quiet. Even with the sea at home, I’ve always found myself able to think without noise intruding. Sometimes I can hardly think here. Well, except for now, of course. It’s very pleasant on the river.”

“Odd. I don’t notice the noises you refer to. I don’t know if I would like living by the sea if it gives a man too much time with his thoughts.”

“Do you not fancy your thoughts, Mr. Swindler?”

Sometimes they were too disturbing, too menacing, but he wasn’t going to share that with her. Instead he sought to put them back on course. “I’m surprised your home is small. I thought all the aristocracy lived in large residences.”

“While my father was part of the aristocracy, our beginnings were humble. Although he dreamed of better for his daughters. I suppose that’s the way of a father. Is your father still living?”

He should have expected the question, based on his own inquiries. He considered lying. He considered giving only a portion of the truth, but decided that although it pained him to give the answer, he could accomplish more with the truth, build a fragile cornerstone for trust. “No. He died on the gallows when I was eight.”

Sorrow reshaped the lines of her face into exquisite beauty, because the emotions were unguarded and true. He’d misjudged the wisest course. He’d thought to disarm her, and instead he was the one taken off guard. She lured from hiding something deep inside him. Emotions he’d locked away long ago wanted to venture forth from the darkness-if for only a moment.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice brimming with her need to provide comfort. If she cared this deeply for a man she’d only recently met, what would be the depth of her love for a sister…or a husband? “What was his offense?”

He reminded himself he was playing a role, and that whatever developed between them would be frayed with falsehood and weak with deceptions. His words were flat, never allowed to touch his soul. “He was charged with thievery. Left me an orphan. Like yours, my mother died in childbirth. I was apparently an unusually large babe.”

“That’s how you came to be with that kidsman. Feagan, was it?”

“Yes, I was fortunate he took me in. I had no family. You and I are alike in that regard, I suppose.”

He rowed in silence for several minutes, absorbing the quietness that he’d never really noticed before. He watched as she glanced around, wondered if he’d revealed too much, was curious as to what she might be thinking.

She suddenly closed her parasol and set it in the bottom of the boat. Then very slowly, inch by inch, she began to peel off her right glove, revealing skin that up until that moment he’d only been able to imagine. His body tightened as though she’d loosened the buttons on her bodice. She tugged on one finger, then the next, and the next, and with each tug his mouth grew remarkably drier.

At long last the glove was completely removed, exposing a hand as creamy and smooth as her face, her nails clipped short and well manicured. Hers was the hand of a true lady, one who relied on servants to do the hard work. Leaning over slightly, she dipped her hand in the water and her features took on an expression more serene than before, more so than he’d ever seen on anyone.

“I miss the sea,” she said quietly. She peered at him through lowered lashes. “Do you swim, Mr. Swindler?”

He started to answer, realized his throat had knotted, and cleared it. “No.”

“It’s wonderful. You should learn.”

“I suppose it’s very much like taking a bath.”

She laughed. “It’s so much more. Elisabeth would only run through the waves, but there is a cove near our home where the water is calm, and I would often swim across it. I have not been there since she died. It was where my father found her.” She shook her head. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to get maudlin and ruin this lovely afternoon.”

”It’s quite all right. I know how difficult it is when you lose someone you love. Even now I often think of my father.”

“Has there been anyone else whom you’ve loved in your life?”

“No.” He wouldn’t tell her about Frannie. His feelings for Frannie, once tender and precious, were for him alone. “Have you ever loved a gent?”

She shook her head. “No.” Lifting her hand, she flicked water at him. “We’re getting very personal here, Mr. Swindler.”

“It’s more interesting than talk of your home. Where is it, by the way?” he prodded, arching his brow, giving her only a glimpse of a teasing smile.

She seemed to give it a moment of thought, as though she couldn’t remember. Or perhaps she simply hadn’t expected the question. “It’s to the north, near the sea, as I mentioned. My father’s estate is small, but lovely. I’m comfortable there.”

“To whom will it go now that he has died? I hope you don’t have a horrid distant male cousin or uncle who will toss you out.” Or worse yet, use her for his own gain. Perhaps there was more to her having no one to show her about London than she claimed.

She shook her head. “The land was not entailed. So the cottage is mine. His title was not hereditary. It was given to him for services rendered to the Crown. Unfortunately it came with nothing except the title, but my father was not one to complain.”

“You don’t strike me as one to complain either.”

She gave him another impish smile. “I can be stubborn when I set my mind to it.”

He couldn’t see her as stubborn either, although he had to admit that her present course contained a bit of recklessness. What did she truly mean to accomplish by following Rockberry around?

“A cottage by the sea seems like a worthy dowry. Have you an interest in marrying a lord?”

“I suspect they’d have no interest in me.”

He stopped rowing. He dared to skim his gloved fingers along her cheek, cursing the cloth that prevented his skin from touching hers. Her eyes widened slightly, and then darkened, and he wondered if she was imagining what he was: his hands trailing over more than just her cheek. He quickly grabbed the oar before he lost all sense of propriety. “I believe they’d show a great deal of interest if they were to make your acquaintance.”

“But that shall never happen.”

“I could make it happen.”

She seemed as stunned by his words as he was. Whatever had possessed him to make that declaration? He had no desire to see her within the arms of another man, but neither did he wish for her to waste her time in London seeking some sort of petty revenge against Rockberry. Truly, what could she accomplish other than irritating the man? He wasn’t worth her time or attention, and it annoyed Swindler that she was giving Rockberry both.

Seeing her again, he was more convinced that his original assessment of her held true: she was no danger to Rockberry. The man was no doubt reacting to his own guilt over his abhorrent behavior toward her sister. He should be flogged. Swindler was of a mind to flog him. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d meted out justice to those who the law considered beyond reach. Was that the reason Sir David had set him this task: not so much to see to the lady, but to the gentleman?