"What kind of evidence have you found?"
"I met a girl who managed to escape from where she was being held prisoner. She told me what she had heard from her abductors and from some of the servants. Because her information was limited, I have been trying to learn more."
He drummed his fingertips on the arm of his chair. "It's rare enough for a young woman to be a journalist, but to pursue a topic like this strains credulity."
"In other words you think I'm lying again?" she snapped. "If there were more female journalists, there would be more writing on such subjects. England is full of women and children who have been brutalized, a situation many men consider normal."
Her words burned with conviction. They also produced a faint echo in the back of his mind. Something he had read… "What is your name? Perhaps I have seen some of your articles."
"Since no female essayist would be taken seriously, I write under several different names, depending on the publication."
That was plausible; most of the scribblers who wrote for the diverse, lively popular press had multiple identities. "I read widely. What is a name that you use regularly?"
She hesitated. "Do I have your word not to reveal it?" After he nodded, she said, "For the Examiner, I am L. J. Knight."
"Good God!" he exclaimed. The weekly newspaper she named was noted for its courage and reforming zeal; in fact, the two brothers who edited it were currently in jail for their disrespectful treatment of the Prince Regent. "L. J. Knight, the radical firebrand, is a young woman?"
"One doesn't need to be either male or old to see that there are many things in our society that need changing. In fact, my youth and sex are advantages, for I see the world differently from male writers," she said coolly. "I was twenty when I first submitted an essay to the Examiner. Leigh Hunt bought it immediately and asked for more."
Still not quite believing her, Lucien said, "I'm surprised that I've never heard that L. J. Knight is female."
"I communicate with Leigh Hunt and my other editors by post or special messenger."
Wanting to test her, he said, "I thought you were a bit hard on Lord Castlereagh in that piece you did on him last summer."
"You have confused me with another journalist. I've never written about the foreign minister." The ironic gleam in her eyes showed that she had recognized the attempted trap.
He considered more brandy, but decided that he needed all of his wits. "Have you learned much by burgling the Hellions?"
"Not as much as I would have if you didn't continually get in the way," she said, humor tempering her exasperation. "However, housebreaking is only part of my investigation. Evidence is mounting, and soon I'll be ready to write my piece."
"What have you learned?"
She shook her head. "I would be a fool to say more."
He studied the slim, feminine figure with respect. It took courage to challenge wickedness armed with only a pen. "My dear, you are a constant source of surprises."
"As are you. For a professional wastrel, you have a remarkably inquisitive mind." She cocked her head. "Do you call all women 'my dear'?"
"Only those I like. Which is quite a number, actually."
"One would expect that of a rake."
"I said like, not lust after," he said dryly. "Those are two entirely different things."
"It's rare, I think, for men to genuinely like women. Why are you different?"
"When I was a child, my closest companion was female," he replied after an infinitesimal pause. "Besides, I still don't know your true name, so 'my dear' is safely neutral."
She smiled a little. "I actually am named Jane."
"Lydia Jane Knight? Or Louise or Laura?"
"I've told you as much as I intend to, my lord, so you can stop asking questions." She gave him a level look. "Now that I've told you the truth, do you understand why I have been investigating the Hellions?"
"Yes, but I still don't approve. You're playing with fire."
"Then perhaps I'll burn." She stood and donned her coat, which had been gently steaming by the fire. "So be it. Good night, my lord."
As she started wrapping her scarf around her head, Lucien hauled himself from his chair, grabbed his cane, and limped over to her. "Not yet. As I said once before, I want to see you again. Where do you live?"
She sighed. "You're very persistent."
"It's a quality you should understand. And that is hardly the only thing we have in common." He raised his free hand and gently stroked the tender curve of her jaw with his knuckles. "We are not enemies, you know."
She stepped back. "I am less sure of that than you."
"Can you deny that there is an attraction between us?"
"Even I am not that good a liar," she said sardonically. "But attraction is a small, unimportant thing. It may be hard for you to believe that a woman can be more interested in justice and the life of the mind than in men, but that is the case with me. We live in different worlds, Lord Strathmore."
"Is this small and unimportant?" He drew her into his arms and kissed her, not with the drug-hazed delight he had felt on the rooftop, but with the emotions that had been building since they had met. Passion, yearning, hope.
Her hands came to rest on his forearms, opening and closing spasmodically as his hand circled her breast. Through the layers of fabric he felt her nipple hardening against his palm. She filled his senses, touch and sound and scent.
When he bent his head to kiss her throat, she whispered, "Don't, Lucien. I… I can't afford to be distracted by desire. You're just giving me more reasons to avoid you."
The delicious sound of his name on her lips obliterated the sense of her words. When she took a halfhearted step backward, he followed, then gasped as agony jolted through his forgotten ankle. "Damnation!" Sweat fuming his brow, he caught a chair to save himself from falling. "Remarkable how pain overcomes lust."
"If I'd known that, I'd have been tempted to kick you in the ankle earlier." Pulling her coat tightly around her, she headed for the door. "It's time for me to go."
He lifted a lamp and followed her. "I'll light you out." He gave her a smile that was as dangerously seductive as his kisses. "With a cane in one hand and a lamp in the other, there isn't much I can do in the way of seduction. Though if I think about it, perhaps I could come up with something."
"Then don't think about it," she said. Yet when they reached the stairs, she silently took the lamp so he could grasp the railing. It was another example of the odd way they worked together, an instinctive harmony she had known with only one other person.
They did not speak until they reached the side door. He turned the key in the lock, but kept one hand securely on the knob as he asked, "Where do you live, Jane?"
In the lamplight, his eyes were lucent gold. She was no match for a man like this, she thought despairingly. He was a master of mysteries she had never learned, and he used his knowledge with ruthless gentleness, beguiling rather than compelling her.
Knowing she must leave before her last grain of sense disappeared, she said rapidly, "Wardour Street. I have a flat at number 96. But what I said earlier was the truth, Lord Strathmore. There is no place in my life for you."
"Places can be created." He released the doorknob and stepped back, allowing her to slip past him.
The weather was even worse than earner. Luckily her destination was only a few blocks away. As she made her way through the silent streets, she found herself wondering again what it would be like to be free to reciprocate his interest. If his intentions were honorable, not villainous… if she successfully completed her mission--
Yet no matter how hard she tried, she could not imagine them together in any meaningful way. She had played a variety of roles and would play more, but none of her identities belonged in the Earl of Strathmore's wealthy, glittering world.