Dignifying that ironic tone was beneath her, so she swept past him into Lord Bloomfield’s study, adjusting her lantern so it illuminated the space better. The room was cluttered and smelled of stale tobacco smoke, spilled claret and musty books she doubted the man had ever read.

Bloomfield was an academic buffoon, a charlatan of the worst order, and without the papers and notes, he would be exposed as such. His Lordship had stolen her father’s life’s work and she intended to get it back. It was her only legacy and, since Bloomfield claimed the papers had been lost during a fire at their last encampment in Egypt after her father’s death, he could hardly charge her with the theft, even if he knew who had broken in and taken them.

It was really, in her opinion, a brilliant plan. It hadn’t been quite so easy to convince Stephen to help her, but in the end, he’d grudgingly agreed. Now all she had to do was find where the papers were stashed.

“See if the desk has any locked drawers,” she suggested, keeping her voice low. “If it does, go to work on them, please.”

“Whatever Your thieving Ladyship desires,” he murmured in a mocking tone, but did go over and begin to examine the desk. In the dim lamplight, his dark hair looked dishevelled, and a wavy lock fell over his brow as he frowned in concentration. Sabrina, in turn, roamed around the room, scouring the shelves for any hiding place, taking out books, even lifting a painting off the wall to see if there might be a cubbyhole behind it.

“The bottom left drawer is locked.” Stephen’s voice held an audible sigh. “I’ll do my best, but I think this is all confirmation that I should hold to my chosen profession as a solicitor and help uphold the law rather than break it.”

“It isn’t theft to take what should be yours,” Sabrina pointed out.

“Rationalization has its place. I suppose this is one of those occasions.” He bent down and went to work on the drawer. The scrape of the picklock came clearly, the little clicks loud in the otherwise quiet, shrouded room.

If we are caught …

No, they wouldn’t be, Sabrina assured herself, replacing a small statue of Isis on the mantel. It was a huge house, all the servants were abed, His Lordship had left for London that morning, and this was the perfect time to regain the documents.

It felt like an hour but was probably only a few minutes before Stephen said, “There it goes. I’ve got it open. You’d best come over here. I am not as confident of recognizing what we’re looking for. Is this it?”

She crossed the room, handing him the lantern, excitement making her heart beat rapidly. In the bottom of the drawer was a leather pouch, and, sure enough, as she lifted it out with shaking hands, her father’s initials were engraved on the front of it.

How many times had she watched him tuck away a bit of vellum into that pouch? How many times had he turned to her, his quick, affable smile curving his lips, his face alight as he talked of the latest discovery?

Tears blurred her eyes and she had to clear her throat as she untied the leather strings that kept it closed and saw his familiar scrawl across the papers inside. “This is it. I knew his notes were here.”

Stephen touched her shoulder. It was light, just a brush of his fingers, but it was comforting. “Even if this is the most reckless thing I can remember doing since you talked me into trying to fly by jumping out of the top of one the tallest trees on your father’s estate, I’m glad we came. However, in the interest of prudence, I think we shouldn’t linger. An undetected escape would make me feel much better than the broken leg I suffered after the misbegotten flying attempt.”

Sabrina gave a muffled laugh. “I felt awful. If you remember, I was most contrite and came over every day with sweets I wheedled from our cook while you recovered. I’m surprised you didn’t emerge from that injury as fat as a piglet.”

“Yes, well, let’s reminisce over our childhood escapades later, shall we? I think we should just go out the window. Either way, His Lordship is going to know he’s been robbed. Going back through the house carries more risk.”

He was undoubtedly right. Stephen was always right. It was infuriating at times, actually. She was the impulsive one; he was the steady logical antithesis of her personality. Where she had dreams … Stephen had plans.

She followed him to the window. He unfastened and lifted it, a tall, lean form in the dim light. He looked outside and then eased over the sill to drop into the dying autumn garden below. As she sat and swung her legs over, he turned to catch her, the leather case clutched in her arms. Stephen quickly lowered her to the ground. Her hand firmly grasped in his, he practically dragged her across the lawn of the park to the edge of the wooded area where they’d left their horses. In a swift motion he lifted her into the saddle of her mare, swung on to his own horse, and they walked at first back towards the road, where they urged their mounts to a trot. It was a clear evening, but cool, a hint of chimney smoke in the air and a scattering of stars above in the velvet sky.

“There’s an inn a few miles on.” Stephen glanced over, his face chiselled to planes and hollows in the indistinct illumination. “Bloomfield is in London and so it isn’t as if we have to avoid heated pursuit. At a guess, no one will know anything is amiss until his return. Even then he can’t really raise a hue and cry over what he supposedly never had in the first place.”

For a man who had been firmly opposed to her plan and had to be coerced into helping, he certainly sounded smug now that the deed was done and the mission successful. Sabrina arched a brow. “True. It’s rather a perfect crime in my opinion.”

“Humph. No such thing,” Stephen argued, all smugness fading from his voice. “We have the advantage of his lack of desire to make a scandal over this, but on the other hand, he is going to know for certain who invaded his house to take those notes and letters, Sabrina. There still could be retaliation, as this will ruin his career. He’s already proven himself to be underhanded. Let’s not underestimate him.”

She didn’t. There was no question her father’s former partner was greedy, manipulative and wily.

But she’d won, she thought in elation as they spotted the lights of the inn down the darkened road. She’d won.

He was a blackguard. A knave. A lustful fool.

Stephen Hammond opened the door to the small room at the top of the stairs and motioned his companion inside.

If you seduce her, you’ll forever know you got what you wanted through coercion. Shouldn’t it be fairly won? The annoyingly chivalrous voice in his head, one he’d heard too many time before, spoke in strident tones.

Damn that voice.

Sabrina walked in a few steps, her cheeks looking suspiciously flushed, her eyes holding an accusing look. “You told the innkeeper we were married.”

So he had. Step one in his diabolical plan. Except really he hadn’t had a plan at all until she’d come to his office in London a few days ago and asked him to help her on tonight’s ridiculous quest, so maybe that excused him at least a little bit. He’d even argued before capitulating and agreeing to take her to Surrey on their nefarious mission. It wasn’t really a surprise he’d given in, because by his recollection he’d never been able to deny her anything his whole life.

And now they were here. Alone.

“I had to,” he said smoothly, “if we are going to share a room.”

A single lamp was lit and shone on her pale, blonde hair. Her face, the features delicate and feminine, drew into a frown. “Good heavens, Stephen, I would be fine by myself. There’s no need for you to watch over me like a mother hen. I’m two and twenty, not some schoolroom miss. This way, there’s only one bed.”

Exactly.

“You’ll have to sleep in a chair or on the floor,” she continued.

Like bloody hell I will.

“There weren’t any other accommodations,” he lied, committing what was the second sin of the evening but hopefully not the last.

“Oh.” She looked uncertainly around the plain interior of the little room as if she could conjure another bed miraculously out of thin air. “I see. I suppose it is late and we don’t have much choice. I daresay riding on at this time of night would hardly be safe.”

“Ah, do I see the aberrant head of practicality rearing?” He strolled casually — or at least he hoped it looked casual, for in fact he was about as nervous as he’d ever been in his life — towards the fireplace and tugged at his cravat, discarding it over the back of a worn chair. “How remarkable. I’ve long maintained you were born without the inclination.”

“Don’t tease me,” she said with a laugh. “I refuse to be baited. Please admit this evening turned out perfectly.”

Perfectly? Well, not yet, but he had hopes it would. “We didn’t get caught,” he admitted, “but it isn’t like we are free and clear either. When we are back in London, I’ll feel better.”

Sabrina sank gracefully down on the edge of the bed. She wore a fitted dark-blue riding habit that exactly matched her eyes, and tendrils of curling golden hair had escaped her chignon and framed her lovely face. “I owe you a great debt.”

“No, you don’t.” It came out clipped. Whatever happened between them this evening, he didn’t want to look at it that way, as if she was just grateful. He wanted her warm, willing, swept away …

The trouble was that he wasn’t the type of man who swept women away. Yes, he had his share of experience with the other gender, but he wasn’t rakish, wasn’t dashing or notorious. Instead he was the third son of a baron who had to work for a living because his family fortunes were modest at best. He’d known Sabrina since childhood because he was just three years older and they had grown up as neighbours, but he really wasn’t suitable for the daughter of an illustrious earl. Lord Reed had enjoyed a reputation for academic achievement and a sizeable fortune. At his death, his daughter had become an heiress and independent, not that Sabrina had ever been anything but independent since the day she could walk.

Still, he loved her. Surely it should count for something.

In his life, it was everything.

“No, it’s true.” She sighed. “I might have told myself I could do this without you, but I’m not sure I would have.”

“Sabrina, surely you know always I’d help you. There is certainly not a chance I’d allow you to attempt tonight’s folly on your own.”

Her sudden smile was on the mischievous side, lighting her face. “I rather counted on that. I think if you will cast back to our conversation in your office last week, I might have slightly — just marginally, mind you — intimated that I would do this even if you didn’t come along. I suppose that could constitute as blackmail.”

“You suppose right.” Stephen began to unbutton his shirt.

“Of the most innocent sort,” she said defensively, her eyes following the motion of his hands, a tinge of incredulity entering her expression as if she just realized what he was doing. She stammered, “You … you are my best friend. Of course I’d ask you for help.”

“Of course,” he echoed, slipping the last shirt button free and tugging the hem of the garment from his breeches.

Her tone was faint now, her eyes wide. “Stephen! You are undressing.”

“As I’m your best friend, then you won’t mind if I don’t sleep on the floor.” He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and sat down to take off his boots. “It occurs to me we’ve slept together before. What’s one more night?”

Would he burn in hell for that one? Maybe.

In a choked voice, Sabrina protested, “When we were very young children. I don’t think this is proper.”

“Didn’t we just break into a man’s house and rifle his study? Please excuse me if I point out with all due logic that we are so past proper it makes me wonder at the meaning of the word.” He lay down on the bed and theatrically clasped his hands behind his head. The seeming nonchalance was undoubtedly belied by the telltale growing bulge in his breeches. Just the thought of lying next to her all night had a predictable effect on his libido. It was the curse of being male, for there was simply no hiding sexual arousal.

Maybe she was too innocent to realize it.

Only he was mistaken there. Her gaze narrowed in on that hardening part of his anatomy and he heard her take in a sharp breath.

Two

Her palms were damp, her breath fluttering in her throat. Sabrina stared at the half-naked man on the bed and felt as if he were suddenly a stranger. Oh, the familiar features of his face were the same: the clean masculine line of nose and jaw, the cheekbones and forehead and, of course, always, always those clear grey eyes under the arch of ebony brows. Stephen had a way of looking right through you if he wished, and his moods were clearly reflected in his striking eyes.