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not even. Now, why don’t you fetch your wrap and allow me to escort you home?”
    Her brow jumped even higher.
    Much to her chagrin, the handsome marquess burst out laughing.
    “You didn’t think I was going to let you off that easy, did you?”
    Varya flushed hotly. For one moment she had thought he was just going to let her go. She should have known that as a man, he would have another agenda.
    “I want some answers,” he informed her as he offered her his hand. She placed her much smaller one inhis palm and rose to her feet. “You appear to be the only one who can give them to me.”
    “I suppose I owe you that much,” she allowed, lifting her gaze to his. She tried to appear calm, but inside a tiny voice was screaming for her to run before he killed her as he had killed Bella.
    She could not run. And she now had some doubts that he could have murdered her friend. Doubts —not convictions.
    He smiled down at her, but the curl of his lips held little humor. Her heart skipped a beat. Few men frightened her, and it did not comfort her to add Bella’s former lover to the list of those who did.
    “It would seem we’re finally in agreement, madam,” he replied silkily. “But you’ll forgive me if I’d rather have you at my mercy than place my own throat at yours.”
     
    Meeting an enemy on his—or in this case her —own territory, Miles had long ago learned, often gave that enemy a false sense of security.
    Not that he planned to attack the exquisite creature sitting on the sofa opposite him, but he would rather be the one on guard in unfamiliar surroundings than the one feeling safe and comfortable in her own home. There was nothing more detrimental to one’s defenses than the sensation of being safe and comfortable.
    He had expected something different from the Elusive Varya’s townhouse. He hadn’t expected it to be situated in an area as exclusive as the West End. He hadn’t expected her to have such taste and elegance in her decor. Walls painted in soft colors were accentedwith delicate plaster work in the Adam style. Everywhere he looked—at a carpet, a painting—there was evidence of wealth and good taste.
    Miss Varya obviously came from a different background than most women who graced the stage. She had the kind of grace, poise, and hauteur that could only come from having been raised with money and power. Interesting.
    Dragging his gaze away from a Wedgwood vase, he turned his attention to the woman who had held him at gunpoint only a few nights ago. Her face was pale, but she kept her expression perfectly blank. She would not intimidate easily. He felt an odd respect for her that annoyed him.
    He had almost laughed out loud when she feigned an attack of the vapors at the theater. In fact, the only thing that had kept his temper at bay was her audacity. Her skill at deception should have enraged him further, but instead he found her quest for self-preservation admirable.
    And then there had been something in the swirling indigo depths of her eyes that had snuffed out his anger. Defiance. Anxiety. And a vulnerability he hadn’t expected to see.
    She had been afraid of him. She was afraid of him even now, and it wasn’t just because she feared he might be a murderer. He couldn’t quite fathom why he sensed this about her, but something told him that she saw him as a threat in more ways than one. He decided not to hand her over to the authorities just yet—this could prove to be a very enjoyable mystery.
    Besides, she claimed to be Bella’s friend. She mightbe the only person able to give him clues to the identity of his former mistress’s murderer.
    And it would be a sin to send a woman so beautiful to Newgate. Not when he could think of much more pleasurable uses for her.
    How could he even consider it? The very thought of bedding such a harridan should chill his blood. Instead, he wondered if she would be as passionate in bed as she was in battle.
    “You have a lovely home,” he