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that his mother was no longer there. And all because of him.
    He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain the recollection always brought him. If only he’d been aware of the sort of danger Lady Ellington’s charitable inclinations had placed her in, he never would have agreed to accompany her on that fateful day. Perhaps if he had refused, she might have been dissuaded from her mission. But at nineteen, he’d been young and foolish and had seen only another opportunity to thumb his nose at one of his father’s dictates. In the end, his rebelliousness had cost his mother her life.
    And she was far from the only person he’d failed. Even after all these years, Tristan was still haunted by the image of Emily’s small face peering down at him from the upstairs window of the town house on the afternoon he’d departed, tears streaming down her cheeks and her eyes pleading with him not to go.
    The sight had affected him profoundly, and for a moment he’d been tempted to go back inside, scoop her up, and take her with him. But no one had known better than he how impossible that would have been. Even if the earl had allowed it, the sort of vagabond lifestyle Tristan would be living would have been no kind of life for a six-year-old child.
    So he’d ridden away without looking back. And Emily had been left alone and neglected.
    As if reading his thoughts, Archer spoke up from the study doorway, drawing his attention. “You mustn’t blame yourself, my lord.”
    “Who else is there to blame? My father obviously wasn’t in his right mind. Perhaps if I’d kept in touch more often instead of attempting to pretend my life here didn’t exist …” Tristan shook his head without bothering to finish the sentence. “No, Archer, it is my fault.”
    He glanced about the entry hall, and as his gaze took in his once beloved surroundings, he could have sworn he heard an echo of his mother’s laughter.
    “Everything is my fault,” he said bleakly, then turned and left the house.
    The lady was an angel .
    At least, she resembled every picture of one Deirdre had ever seen. Dainty and delicate, she wore an expensive lavender silk pelisse and matching bonnet, her golden curls framing a heart-shaped face with skin the color of porcelain. She seemed to be waiting for someone, her anxious gaze darting back and forth as she stood on the street corner in the lengthening shadows of late afternoon .
    What was an angel doing in the middle of the rookery?
    Suddenly, a heavy hand fell on Deirdre’s shoulder, and she glanced up to find Barnaby Flynt standing at her elbow, his menacing stare locked on the same woman she’d been watching .
    “’Er,” he rasped, his mouth curling into a grim smile. “She’s the one.”
    Deirdre felt her heart slam painfully against her ribs. She hadn’t wanted to come on the job with Barnaby today in the first place, but he’d insisted, and now he was frightening her. She didn’t like the way he was studying the lady, with a hint of something more than the usual avaricious greed glinting in his eyes, and it led her to speak without thinking .
    “Oh, not ’er, Mr. Flynt. ’Ow about that gent? ’Is pockets look plenty fat and—”
    A solid cuff on her ear brought her words to an immediate halt .
    “Shut your yap!” Barnaby spat at her, his scar livid against the mottled anger of his face. “I didn’t bring you along to tell me who I can rob and who I can’t. I said ’er, and that’s that.”
    “But I—”
    His thick fingers bit into her arm. “Don’t argue wiv me, or you’ll be earning your keep on your back in one of the flash ’ouses. Do you understand?”
    Oh, she understood all right, and she bit her tongue against any further words, giving a single, abrupt nod in reply. As much as she hated the idea of stealing from the angel, she hated the idea of being forced to become a doxy even more. Barnaby held all the power here, and she would be crazy to let herself forget that, even for a