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Hannah’s stomach did a strange flip. She straightened in her chair. What on earth was wrong with her? She’d sat in this exact spot when her father had entertained business associates and visitors countless times before. During those visits, she’d experienced everything from general indifference to mild interest to burning curiosity. Never before had her nerves played a part.

She touched the ivory brooch pinned to the neck of her pink floral gown. She simply wished to reiterate her appreciation for his efforts in reclaiming her brooch and bringing her home safely. That was all. A simple word of thanks and the return of his laundered cravat. Nothing her traitorous nerves should get all worked up about.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and then Mr. Ross entered the room.

“Good afternoon, Dennington,” he said.

Though her father was still unable to put weight on his injured leg, Hannah stood. She caught the surprise in Mr. Ross’s eyes before he smiled.

“Miss Dennington.” He bowed. “I am glad to see you looking so well.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ross.” The deep-red line that marked her wound was clearly visible, but the swelling and soreness beneath her chin had improved immeasurably. Dr. Meyer had removed the catgut sutures the day before, and she could now move her head without catching her breath from the pain. “I am much improved.”

“Good news indeed,” he said.

“Yes.” She picked up the folded cravat lying on the arm of the chair. “I wished to return this to you with my sincere thanks. Dr. Meyer said that it made a vast difference in stemming my bleeding.” She stepped closer and offered it to him. “Fanny worked very hard to remove all the stains. I hope it will still be serviceable.”

Holding his tricorn hat and gloves in one hand, he accepted the cravat with the other. Their fingers touched. The contact was so brief it was over almost before Hannah realized that it had happened, but it left her skin tingling in an inexplicable—and somewhat unsettling—manner.

“That was very good of Fanny,” Mr. Ross said. “I had not expected to have it returned. You both have my sincere thanks.”

“Of course. It was the least we could do.”

Given his seemingly genuine appreciation, Hannah thought it likely that he did not own a great many cravats. Bow Street runners were not known for their affluence. But he had also mentioned being in the navy. Had he only recently left his position there? She wished she knew. It might answer the burning question that had been circling her mind for a full week. She trapped her lower lip between her teeth. She’d always prided herself upon being observant, which made her uncertainty about the sailor she’d seen at the wharf all the more frustrating. She’d met his gray eyes, and then he’d been gone. The shock of their brief interaction had impacted her so severely she’d not given any attention to other details—such as his height, build, or other features.

“Please be seated, both of you.” Her father gestured toward the chair across from him.

Mr. Ross waited until Hannah had lowered herself into the armchair before taking the seat.

“What news, Ross?” her father asked.

Hannah stifled a sigh. For now, the opportunity to ask Mr. Ross about his naval service had passed. But she would look for another chance. To see the exact shade of gray eyes that had haunted her for twelve years twice within a fortnight was not something she could ignore.

Those eyes now met hers. “Will it distress you if I speak of the highwayman who held you captive, Miss Dennington?”

“No, sir. I am as anxious as my father is to get to the bottom of these crimes.”

His smile was slight, but she caught it. For some reason, her answer pleased him. And in the oddest of ways, recognizing that in him pleased her. Most gentlemen of her acquaintance would be aghast that she wished to know every detail of his investigation. Apparently, young ladies of good breeding were supposed to leave the room or require smelling salts if unpleasant subjects arose. Hannah had yet to comprehend that mindset.

“I met with Sir John and two of his most experienced men this morning,” Mr. Ross said. “We believe we have finally identified the leader of the gang of highwaymen who waylaid your carriage.”

“Is he the only one who escaped?” Hannah asked. Her memories of the time after her injury were fuzzy, but she was almost positive that was the case.

“Yes,” he said. “One of the highwaymen died at the scene. Another died of his wounds a few days later. The other two are being held at Newgate, awaiting their trials at the Old Bailey.”

“I am glad to hear it,” her father said. “Those villains have been terrorizing the good citizens of London far too long.”

“What of the leader?” Hannah asked. “You said you have identified him. I assume that means he is still at large?”

“Regrettably, yes, but we hope to rectify that shortly.” He turned his attention to her father. “When our suspect is taken into custody, he will be thoroughly interrogated, and we will quickly discover if he is in any way connected to the theft at your warehouse.”

“Good.” Her father’s jaw tightened. “But as anxious as I am to get to the bottom of the warehouse incident, let me make my priorities clear, Ross. Regardless of whether this brute of a man was involved in stealing my rum, he almost killed my daughter. For that reason alone, I expect you to do whatever it takes to bring him to justice.”

Mr. Ross met his glare without flinching. “I will, sir. You have my word.”

Her father gave a satisfied nod. Hannah understood. She may know almost nothing about the gentleman, but there was a sense of dogged resilience to Mr. Ross that suggested he was well used to facing down challenges. And it was somewhat disconcerting that not only did she accept his commitment as readily as her father had but that she also had a growing desire to learn more about the difficulties he had faced in the past.

Jealous’s attitude toward Samuel was shifting. Slowly. Samuel was not sure whether the change had begun when Jealous had heard Clarke’s praise of Samuel’s marksmanship on Primrose Hill or when Samuel had identified Grimsby as the leader of the Bardsey Gang. Either way, the principal officer had started including Samuel in his and Clarke’s discussions about the case. He’d even gone so far as to invite Samuel to join him when he’d made an unexpected call upon Billy Watts, the disreputable owner of the Bull’s Head public house, to question him about Grimsby’s whereabouts. Unfortunately, Billy had been stubbornly unforthcoming, and on the off-chance his reticence to talk was due to the presence of an unfamiliar Bow Street assistant, Jealous had opted to conduct his next interrogations alone.