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The viscount waved him away with a scowl. “No, no. Just a touch of assault while you were busy with the step. Fortunately I am not so easy to wound.” He pulled up his cloak where it had slipped off his shoulder and limped away with only a brief nod in Harry’s direction. The coachman gave him a sympathetic look before following his master.

Harry listened to Crane walk away. He nudged the man on the ground with his toe, then took hold of his coat and pulled him up. A strong smell of gin hit him in the face as the fellow moaned again, and Harry released him, letting him flop back onto the street. Just a common drunk.

“Drink is a wicked thing,” he told his victim, then slowly rose and turned. Lord Crane was settled in his carriage, none the worse for his encounter with a cup-shot lamplighter. Harry exhaled, pried his fingers from the dagger, then ducked his head and hurried on to his own carriage.

It was farther than he remembered, and by the time he reached the familiar horses, his shins burned. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Crane’s carriage had started off. He rapped once on the driver’s box with his cane to get Ian’s attention, then flung open the door.

“Here now, my lord! Can’t injure yourself, sir.” Ian jumped down and seized his arm. Harry scowled as Ian’s fingers bit into his flesh. “Feeling spry tonight, eh?” muttered the Scot as he heaved Harry into the carriage.

“Crane’s already gone,” he bit back, slamming the door in Ian’s face. The carriage rocked as Ian leaped back onto his seat, then lurched as he set the horses off without pause. Harry knelt on the front seat and slid open the little door.

“He’s headed home,” Ian said as they passed the last of the clustered carriages near Doncaster House.

“He left in quite a rush.” Harry couldn’t see around Ian, and he could barely hear him. “I almost missed it.”

Ian grunted. “Getting slow in your old age, aye?”

Harry ignored the dig. Ian was driving along at a rapid pace, and this carriage wasn’t particularly luxurious or well-sprung. His knees bounced on the hard seat with every jerk and sway of the wheels. He had to brace himself on the door as they went around one corner, on two wheels, from the feel of it. “Have we passed him yet?” he yelled at Ian, who merely laughed, the blighter.

Before long Ian slowed, then turned another corner and stopped altogether. Harry slid to the window and peered out. They were in a narrow alley three doors down from Crane’s town house. Harry’s eyes swept up and down the well-lit street as the driver opened the door for the viscount and lowered the step. There was no one else about, no other carriages on the street. All seemed safe enough...

Lord Crane emerged, leaning heavily on the driver’s arm. A footman came out of the house and hurried down the steps, only to jump back as Crane waved him away. Slowly, he climbed the steps into his house, trailed by the obedient footman. The door closed behind them both. The driver returned to his box and flicked the whip, setting the horses into motion.

“Home again, safe and sound,” Ian said, breaking the silence. “Where to, m’lord?”

“Home,” Harry said, falling back into the seat and plucking the spectacles off his face to rub his nose. “We’re done here.”

The carriage rocked as Ian started the team, more sedately this time, and Harry rested his head and sighed. When they turned into the mews behind the house in Fenton Lane, he put the spectacles back on. This time Ian didn’t bother to help him down, and Harry clenched his jaw as he had to put his full weight back on his sore feet. He jerked his head at Ian, who nodded and drove off to tend the horses.

Harry crossed the narrow way to the back door of the house and let himself in. There was little pretense of nobility in this house. It was plainly and practically furnished, just enough to be lived in. It was small and somewhat dingy and no one could call its location fashionable. Mr. Phipps certainly had spared the expense when he arranged this for their headquarters.

At the top of the stairs Harry turned toward his room, catching up the lamp left burning on the hall table. Ian slept above the stables most nights, and Angelique, the fourth and most experienced agent of their group, was on duty at Lord Bethwell’s. He was nearly alone in the house tonight.

Grimacing, Harry shed the padded coat and laid it aside, then tossed the spectacles on top of it. He raised his arms above his head and stretched, feeling the muscles in his back pull tight in protest. Damn, it felt good to stand upright again after stooping for so many hours.

Next went the shoes, the despicable narrow shoes meant for a man half his size. He peeled off the waistcoat and cravat, stripping off the pieces of Wroth. First the outer layers of musty wool, then the layers of old linen, until he was bare to the waist and finally felt almost like himself again.

For a moment he just stood there with his arms folded, flexing his toes in relief. Those shoes were a torment from hell. But he’d been given them as part of his disguise and told not to ask questions. That was a common refrain in this job: don’t ask, just do.

He had accepted that so far, but from time to time, when he sat on the edge of his seat, hardly breathing as he watched Crane labor up his front steps, he couldn’t help wondering just where the true threat lay. Surely they hadn’t been given this assignment merely to prevent Crane and the others from being harassed by drunks and pickpockets.

He sighed and shook it off. It was enough that Phipps and Stafford believed Crane, Doncaster, and Bethwell were in danger. It was his job to keep them safe, not to worry about who might try to harm them. Tonight he’d been successful, and he ought to be content with that.

In stockinged feet he crossed the room to the wash basin. He splashed his face, sucking in his breath at the coldness of the water, then dunked his head and scrubbed his hair to get rid of the sticky powder that turned it gray.

When he raised his dripping head, he braced his arms on the washstand and stared at himself in the mirror. Now he even looked like himself, although a drowned version. Dark hair spiked along his crown and clung to his forehead in sodden snakes. Water dripped off a square jaw. He leaned closer, scrutinizing his reflection in the dim lamplight. A straight, sharp nose. Piercing hazel eyes. Scullery maids and tavern wenches liked his face well enough...

“She wouldn’t want you anyway,” he muttered. He turned away from the mirror and buried his wet face in a towel, trying not to think anymore of the wealthy, pampered, gloriously beautiful and utterly forbidden Lady Mariah.

Chapter Four

Mariah went to her mother’s suite as soon as she was dressed the next morning. Her curiosity about the mysterious Harry had, if anything, grown stronger overnight. Although she’d kept her eyes and ears open the rest of the evening, she hadn’t come across anyone who could be the same man.

It was more than a little puzzling. How could he simply disappear? She even made it a point to meet as many gentlemen as possible after supper, to no avail. She’d never heard his voice again. His challenge, not to mention his sly laugh, rang in her ears as she rapped at the door and pushed it open when her mother called out.

“Good morning, Mariah.” Mama was still in bed, sipping tea. “You’re awake early for a young lady who danced until the dawn.”

Mariah smiled. “I wasn’t up so very late.”