Beneath the lingering trace of bergamot was the warm, clean scent of his skin, and it unsettled her more than the chaos in the street.
She turned her head a fraction. He was so close her heartgalloped. So close she could see slivers of gold in his dark green eyes, the faint crease beside one brow, the tension in his jaw.
“I’ve waltzed with you and survived, sir.”
His gaze dipped to her lips. “Our dance isn’t over, Miss Harland.”
“It’s not?”
“You know damn well it’s not.”
He released her, stepping away as the boy returned.
“Mrs Haggert will see you now, Mr Hawke.”
His words echoed through her mind as they followed the boy to the house at the end of the grimy passage. A thin, skeletal man in a pristine coat opened the door and showed them into a comfortable drawing room. The dark walls and velvet chairs reminded her of Shadowmere, rich, worn, and full of secrets.
They sat beside each other on the settee, waiting as the mantel clock ticked amid the silence. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. He lounged with his legs spread wide, a picture of casual dominance.
She couldn’t take her eyes off his knee, its nearness a maddening distraction. Every time he shifted in the seat, anticipation curled tighter in her belly.
Our dance isn’t over.
It’s not?
You know damn well it’s not.
What did she know? That he found peculiar reasons to visit the cottage. That there was weight to their silences. That something unspoken hovered between them. That she looked forward to the carriage ride home. Even if he slept the whole way.
The door creaked open.
A woman’s voice, dry as kindling, cut through the quiet.
“Well. Well. What have we here? A murderess on the run, is it?”
Mrs Haggert kept abreast of all London gossip.
Running a criminal organisation required staying one step ahead of the peelers. Which meant she already knew of Harland’s death, and that they were both potential suspects.
A cold hollow opened in Dominic’s gut.
He could take care of himself. But Sergeant Carter seemed too eager to see someone behind bars, and Miss Harland was a convenient target.
“She’s innocent,” he said, rising to greet the woman who’d come to his aid when he was a boy. Her hair was grey now, not black; her cheeks pink with rouge, not a healthy blush.
She had more secrets than Shadowmere.
He’d long suspected she worked for the Crown and wasn’t the villain most people feared. But he never asked questions. Never pried.
“Aren’t we all?” Mrs Haggert beckoned her closer. “Let me take a good look at you. I’ll know if you did it, mind. If you tossed your poor papa into the Thames.”
Miss Harland met her gaze without flinching. “I would have done anything to escape his clutches. Anything but kill him.”
He didn’t expect her to cower, but damn if he didn’t feel a flicker of pride.
“We’ll see, deary. We’ll see.” Mrs Haggert took hold of her chin and peered into her eyes. “Has he touched you? Has he used that rugged charm to have his way? I wouldn’tblame you if you’d succumbed. There’s few what could resist him.”
Miss Harland blinked. “Who?”
