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Behind him, inside the house, Viv would not think of Lark. Her thoughts would be of Lady Melforth. The woman was clearly more ill than she was willing to admit, and it would be Newberry at Viv’s side with the right to calm her fears.

The door behind him opened again, and he glanced over his shoulder. “You.”

Viv came down the two steps toward him. He turned and took her hands in his. He knew why he’d lingered on her doorstep, and he tried to crush an absurd hope that she felt the same. “What is it?”

“Thank you.”

Her gratitude was not what he wanted. “For what?”

“My aunt told me how you and my uncle kept the Strydes at bay. They make things so much worse for her ladyship.”

“She’s quite ill, isn’t she?” He could see the worry in her eyes.

“She’s not herself. One minute she blames Newberry for not curing her foot, and the next she insists that we finish the book tonight. But I fear…” Viv drew in a long, slow breath and squared her shoulders. “Newberry will consult another physician tomorrow. He thinks she has developed a palsy.”

Lark gave her hands a squeeze. The demands on her would be greater now. A woman as proud and independent as her ladyship would not be easy to care for. He knew there was another fear. “You worry that the writing will come to an end.”

“I do,” she admitted. “For her, as much as for me. She’s always been a writer. I’ve just begun. But you give me courage.”

“Courage?” He wanted to laugh. He doubted that the woman who shot him needed courage. His wound was nearly healed. He no longer wore the plaster, and soon the spent ball and the slight scar on his side would be the only reminders of their brief betrothal. He wanted more to remember, much more. He released her hands and slid his palms up her arms. Her eyes widened, and she shivered under his touch. He watched her mouth, knowing from the way she drew in her lower lip that she was concentrating, trying to hold onto some idea. He took hold of her shoulders, making his own intentions plain.

“Wait,” she said. “Let me finish what I meant to say. The courage I get from you is the courage to keep writing, and to write what I truly see.”

It was sweetly sincere, but it was far from what he hoped for. “Finished?”

She nodded.

“Good.” He kissed her, and his senses narrowed to her. He lost himself in illusion. It didn’t matter that he was a thief and she, a lady. For the moment she was his Viv, not soft and yielding like some imagined lover, but fiercely alive and meeting him kiss for kiss. She clutched his coat, bunching the wool over his ribs in little pulses of movement that echoed the pounding of his own pulse. He moved to cup her face and slide his fingers into her hair and hold her where he could taste the sweetness and boldness of her spirit.

For the moment there was only Viv, and he could believe she knew him, the man under the layers of disguise. Her kiss lifted him up. The old London, which had rated him as nothing without knowing him, faded away, its stones dissolving under his feet. He inhabited a new London, in which he was no longer a pickpocket, only the man who loved Viv Bradish.

The tune from across the way ceased, and an unseen audience clapped mightily. The spell broke.

Viv slipped from his grasp. She lowered her head. “I must go in. I’ll leave word with Haxton when we can meet again. To…to finish things.”

He nodded, unable to speak.

*

Almost as soon as he began to walk, Lark knew he was being followed. His pursuer hung back when traffic was light and moved closer as Lark approached Cavendish Square. Lark passed his usual turning, and headed away from his lodging. As the view opened up across the square, Lark slowed his pace, listening for the man’s footfall. There was no mistaking Rook’s heavy tread. Rook had been waiting in the shadows, watching.

Lark headed down Regent Street toward Piccadilly. In his evening finery, he could stroll unremarked. He would put people and carriages between himself and his pursuer. He would lead Rook into the very heart of temptation among London’s jewel-studded West End pleasure-seekers with their diamond stickpins and fat gold watches. Once Rook was distracted, Lark would give him the slip.

Eluding Rook took the length of Regent Street and a good bit of Piccadilly, but at last Lark stood in the darkness of the park, free for the moment, but knowing Rook would return to the house where Viv lived. The Rook who had assaulted him and followed him was not the friend and partner of the old days. Lark did not think Rook would do Viv harm, but he could not be sure what this new Rook’s intentions were.

There were servants to prevent him from entering the house either through the front door or through the basement, and Haxton would not hesitate to summon the constables if needed. But Viv, who had no idea of Rook’s existence, could leave the house alone, and be followed and accosted. In her own neighborhood, consumed with worry about Lady Melforth, Viv would not think to carry her pistol.

Lark should warn her, but he could think of no word of warning that would not reveal the truth about their first meeting. That was the rub. I know you think I’m the kind gentleman who came to your aid when another man pinched your purse, but I was that man’s accomplice for years. If they had to part, if their sham betrothal had to end, he wanted her to go on thinking of him as Edward Larkin, a gentleman. He would have to be sharp and alert to prevent Rook from getting to her.