"Lizzy?"

A choked exclamation that he only just managed to avoid bellowing at the top of his lungs.

She — for it was, indeed, she, under a generous smear of mud — opened her mouth as if to protest, then appeared to think better of it.

"Good choice," he snapped. He spun sharply on his heel, dragging her with him. He jerked his head in Dembe's direction to indicate they were leaving ahead of schedule. "There's no point trying to deny it — it's blazingly clear who you are."

She kept her mouth shut, lips pressed together in a thin line, scowing fiercely, and pulled her cap down further to hide her eyes. He, too, kept his silence until they reached the hansom he'd hired.

Nodding to Dembe to join the coachman on the box, he boosted Lizzy inside and hauled himself in after her, slamming the door shut behind him. They sat on opposite benches, glaring at each other, until they were moving off down the street, and the clatter of the wheels offered a shield for conversation.

"Have you," he began, keeping his calm with a deliberate, excruciating politeness, "completely lost your mind?"

She gaped at him for a long moment, then reddened with fury. "Me?" she snarled. "How dare you…manhandle me in that appalling fashion?"

He barked a laugh of disbelief. "You are extremely fortunate a little light handling by someone friendly is the worst that happened to you," he retorted, unable to temper himself any longer. "Do you have any idea…"

"No one noticed me at all except you," she raged back. "Why were you looking so closely at the stable boys?"

He took that insult without flinching — it wasn't as if he hadn't wondered the same thing. "Only you, I assure you, Miss Scott," he returned evenly. "There were numerous aspects of your person that demanded a closer look."

"You had no right to just haul me off, regardless," she said sulkily.

He rubbed a hand over his head in exasperation. "Do you have any idea," he repeated, "how you look? I can see every inch of you in those appalling clothes. If you thought to hide your femininity behind grubby breeches and a loose shirt, let me assure you — you failed utterly." The sleek curves of her were still a distraction he didn't need.

"No one looked at me twice the entire hour I was there," she insisted, but she sounded slightly mollified in response to his vehemence. She scratched absently at a patch of flaking dirt on her cheek with her grimy sleeve. "The fancy don't look at the help, Red."

"And what about the other lads, hmm?" She looked startled at that suggestion, and he nodded in grim satisfaction. "It was only a matter of time until something happened that you wouldn't have been able to escape," he admonished.

Her efforts to wipe her face had only succeeded in spreading the muck around, and he offered her his pristine handkerchief with a resigned sigh. He watched her as she scrubbed at herself, trying not to notice the way the rough linen shirt pulled against her slim waist, the curve of her breast.

"What on earth are you playing at, anyway?" He had to say something, anything, to distract himself.

She emerged from behind the cloth, her face red from her attentions and her expression outraged. "I'm not playing at anything! I was investigating."

Oh good god, he thought, horrified. What seemed like a bad situation is in fact much, much worse than I imagined.

"Investigating?" he said faintly.

"Men talk a great deal more frankly when there are no women about," she said. "And since I can't quite figure out how to get into one of the clubs, I thought Tattersall's would be a good place to start."

Was there no end at all to the nerve of this outrageous girl?

"You are not, under any circumstances, to even think about going to a gentlemen's club," he said firmly. The mere idea of it made him quail in his boots.

"I need to listen to their conversations," she insisted. "Someone, sometime, is sure to say something about Papa."

Sympathy swept over him in a reluctant wave. "Oh, Lizzy," he murmured, a heavy sigh, reaching across to touch her smeared pink cheek gently.

"I must find out the truth," she said, leaning forward in her keen earnestness.

An enticing triangle of clean, creamy skin flashed at the loose neck of her shirt. He forced his gaze away with some difficulty and met her eyes.

"All right," he said, defeated. He had come back to London for the express purpose of looking out for her, after all. "If it means this much to you, I'll do what I can to help you."

She beamed at him. "Oh, Red, thank you," she cried, and impulsively threw herself across the hansom to embrace him happily.

His breath caught at the feel of her slim, warm body pressed against his; his arms went around her by instinct. She was clearly lacking a number of the layers a lady normally armored herself in, and the thin, worn boy's clothes she wore decidedly did not make up the difference. Her breasts were lush against his chest, and she exuding an intoxicating warmth that he instinctively wanted more of. She smelled faintly of some sort of herb, green and fresh, and his body hardened, quickly and painfully, in response to the overwhelming sensory input. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, even as she pulled away, embarrassed.

"I'm so sorry," she said, brushing hastily at the wide swath of dirt she'd left on his waistcoat.

Having her hands on him didn't help his…situation one bit. He drew them gently away and managed to smile at her.

"Never mind," he said. "It will brush out easily enough. Now," he continued, surreptitiously adjusting the folds of his coat, "how long before you must be at home?"

"Oh, I can be away another hour, maybe two," she answered breezily. "Aunt believes I am shopping with a friend this morning. I wasn't," she continued, with an amused glance at him, "at Tattersall's for as long as I thought I might be."

"You do realize, Lizzy, that that is exactly the sort of information you shouldn't be sharing with a strange man?" As enchanted as he was with this bewildering young woman, he felt the need to guide her, to steer her clear of the dangers she seemed utterly unaware of.

She merely rolled her eyes at him. "Of course I do," she said, more amused than ever. "But obviously, I can trust you. Or were you planning to drag me off and ravish me, my lord?"

He was both touched by her trust, and infuriated by her teasing. Little does she know, he thought darkly, just how much I long to do exactly that. He had the sense that this type of duality would be typical in their relationship, and sighed again.

"Of course not," he said, albeit a tad reluctantly. "I am honoured to hold your trust, Elizabeth. I was, however, going to suggest you come home with me."

She stared at him, apparently finally bereft of words from the shock of such an improper suggestion. He shrugged, then grinned at her. She thought he looked sly as a cat, and the thought made her smile back.

"No one will recognize you — you needn't worry about your reputation," he pointed out. "And we shall be able to have a much more private conversation than we would otherwise. I have a…quiet household."

"All right," she said, feeling ridiculously daring.

And as he rapped on the roof and issued brief instructions to his coachman, she let herself enjoy the thrill that ran through her, and the quickening of her heartbeat.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It wasn't a long drive to Blackwood House, and there wasn't any further conversation. The silence, though, was companionable rather than awkward, and Raymond found he rather enjoyed it.

He carefully took no notice of Elizabeth sneaking interested glances at him from under her borrowed cap; he waited until she was looking out the window to stare at her in return. Even mud-streaked, in her rough, ill-fitting boy's clothes, she was beautiful. He wondered idly if she found him at all attractive, or if she looked at him and saw an old man — a peer of her father rather than of herself.

Thankfully, they arrived at the house before his mind could get any further away from him. As was his habit, he didn't wait for the coachman, but opened his own door and swung out, eager to be upright and in the fresh air. He heard Elizabeth shift along the seat behind him, and turned back with a broad smile.

"Not so hasty, my dear," he said charmingly. "Stable lads don't come in through the front door."

She gaped at him as he shut the hansom door gently in her face. His mood brightened, he was grinning as he looked up at Dembe on the box.

"Bring the boy in through the mews, would you?"

Dembe nodded impassively, but his eyes glimmered with humour. Raymond climbed the wide front steps and entered the house, pausing to leave his hat, gloves, and coat in the care of his housekeeper. He went straight to his library, the room in which he felt the most comfortable, the most at home.

He was safely ensconced behind his desk when Elizabeth came in, surprisingly subdued. She sat primly in the hard chair opposite, her ankles crossed neatly despite her breeches.

"So," he said, not quite sure where to start.

"May I just say something?" She looked up and met his eyes with unusual directness.

"Of course," he replied, curious.

"I owe you an apology, my lord," she said quietly. "I meant to give it to you the instant I saw you again, but then…well…" She flushed prettily, but didn't look away. "Events got away from me a little."

He laughed aloud at that, and her rosy blush deepened. "I can't think of anything you've done to offend me personally," he said politely.

"The way I spoke to you last night was completely unmerited," she replied, a little anxious now. "I…I'm afraid I forgot, in the moment, that you have suffered your own difficult losses, and spoke to me with the voice of experience. If anyone could understand the way I'm feeling, I believe it would be you."

His face had closed over while she spoke, and the distance bothered her immensely. She shifted forward, wanting to be closer, her expression earnest.

"Please forgive me, Raymond. I spoke in anger, and it was careless of me."

His face cleared again, though his eyes remained dark, and he smiled at her. "There's no need, really," he replied. "I know you didn't intend to wound."

"I would never purposefully hurt you," she said, more earnest than ever. "I…well, I am sorry, regardless."

"Then of course, I accept," he answered. He did wonder what she had started to say, but knew it would be unpardonably rude to ask.

"Now then," he continued, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. "Why don't you tell me about your father."

She sighed. "We came back to London about a year ago, due to Papa's poor health." Her eyes pled with him for patience. "I know he was ill, but he wasn't about to die, Red, I'm positive. He was having quite a good spell when…when it happened."

Raymond frowned. "It was trouble with his lungs, wasn't it?"

"Yes," she said. "A 'wasting disease', the doctors said. He coughed a great deal, and I know it pained him."

"Was he bedridden, at the end?"

"No!" She leaned in, propping her elbows on the desk. "He got up every day and worked, just as always."

"Is it possible," Raymond asked gently, "that he was working to keep things as normal as he could, for your sake?"

Elizabeth shook her head stubbornly. "He couldn't have pretended that well, honestly, not if he was so very ill. He spent time with Mister Oates — his man of affairs — and time with me, cataloguing the artifacts we brought back. He was even going to his club a few times a week."

"And when he died?"

"He was alone in the study," she said, with a small, wistful smile. "He liked to read there, in the afternoon."

"Was there any indication of anything amiss? Anything out of the ordinary?"

"Not exactly."

Raymond just looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

"There wasn't anything in the room that didn't belong there," she admitted. "And it was always a bit of a mess, so it was difficult to tell if anything was out of place or not. But Papa…he didn't look right. He looked so angry, as if he'd been arguing with someone. And his blotter was completely clean." This last with some triumph.

"Elizabeth," Raymond began, and she scowled at him fiercely.

"I know, I know it sounds ridiculous and it's not evidence of anything, but at the same time, it is. Why should he look like that if he'd been alone? And Papa never remembered to change the blotter, I always did it. And I hadn't done it yet, that week."

Raymond stood and moved around the desk to lean on the edge of it, facing her. She refused to look at him, scowling at her knees, her eyes hidden by the brim of her cap. He sighed, then reached over and tugged the grubby cloth from her head.

She looked up then, startled, her eyes bright with emotion. Pins dropped away with the yank of the cap, so that her rich, dark hair tumbled over her shoulders and down her back in riotous waves.

His breath caught in his throat at the sheer loveliness of it. Without thinking, he stroked it back from her face, marveling at the silky feel. He speared his fingers through the heavy mass, entranced. The sensation was indescribable, and he indulged in it shamelessly, tipping her head back as he did.

Her face had changed from surprised to dazzled, her rosy lips slightly parted. He started to lean in, eager for a taste of her, his body humming…when her indrawn breath reminded him where he was and what he was doing — or, rather, should be doing. The strength of his desire shocked him, and required an immense effort to wrench back. With one final stroke, he tucked her hair behind her ear. She blushed a little, but leaned into his hand, appealingly.

"You knew him best," Raymond said. "If you say it wasn't right, I believe you."

"Thank you, she said quietly. "That means a great deal to me."

"So," he said, letting his arms drop to his sides, and gripping the edge of the desk in an effort to keep his hands to himself. "Did you learn anything this morning?"

"No, not about Papa," she said, scowling in disappointment. "I did learn," she continued, her face becoming mischievous in a flash, "how wonderfully freeing breeches are. I could run, really run, without falling over or losing my breath."

"Don't get any ideas," he returned, a mock threat heavy in his tone. "And that brings me to my next question — wherever did you get these clothes?"

"A friend," she answered cautiously.

He raised an eyebrow, sardonic. "Do you have many male friends amongst the servants?"

Elizabeth reddened further. "No, of course not," she snapped. "Tom isn't a servant, he's a clerk for Mister Oates — Papa's man, you know. He spent so much time arranging all the papers for Papa's estates that we all became quite friendly. He still comes often, to sort through things for Mister Oates. They're working to tie up all the investments and arrange things properly for Aunt June and I."

A frisson of alarm shivered down Ramond's spine as she spoke. "Tom?" he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral. "Would that be Thomas Keen, perchance?"

"Why, yes," she replied, startled. "How on earth did you know that?"

He couldn't tell her now that it was that self-same young man about whom Sam had written to him, worried over the nature of this very friendship, and the young man's volatile nature. He'd have to at least meet the boy first, and evaluate things for himself.

"I believe Sam mentioned him once or twice," he said, prevaricating just a bit. "And so, this young friend of yours was happy to lend you some old clothes and let you go traipsing around the city?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes at him, exasperated. "No one lets me do anything — I have a mind of my own, you know. And as a matter of fact, he took quite a lot of convincing. He's waiting for me," she remembered suddenly, "to make sure I get home safely."

"How chivalrous," Raymond murmured, attempting to sound genuine instead of resentful.

"He's been a very good friend to me," she answered, only a little defensive.

Raymond smiled at her, mind ticking. "It's a great gift to have good friends that you can count on," he said mildly. "Perhaps, in time, you'll be able to lean on me, as well."

She flushed a little, and smiled back. "I already know I can count on you, Red."

His smile broadened; he couldn't help it. "I'll need a little time to think about the best way to proceed." He stood and extended a hand to her. "We should get you on your way before your absence causes any trouble. Perhaps I could call on you tomorrow?"

"I'm sure we would be happy to receive you, my lord," she answered politely, but her eyes sparkled.

And just as he bundled her into the hansom so Dembe could get her home, she boldly pressed a swift kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you, Red," she murmured, sweet and soft.

He could feel her kiss, warming him, for the rest of the day.