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knew every despicable thing about them, and every single one of them disgusted him. Once he’d believed in honor and pride, but to survive in the real world, there was little room for such ideals.
    Jack lifted the silver tea pot and poured into a delicate red and gold tea cup. The dark liquid pooled in the cup, wafting steam and a spicy scent of India.
    He poured in two dollops of milk and stirred in three teaspoons of sugar. Bloody hell, how he’d missed good tea. On the continent, there’d been a few tea leaves and dirt stirred together in stream water.
    He cradled the cup in his hand, damning decorum in private. The heat seeped into his skin. Taking a deep sip, he savored the exotic taste in his mouth, letting the spicy warmth slide over his tongue and down his throat.
    Once, he’d never even imagined he’d be surrounded by such creature comforts.
    As the sound of footsteps, fast and heavy, thundered outside his door, Jack lifted his gaze. The door burst open and O’Malley came through, his chest pumping up and down beneath his dark blue coat.
    “Ye’re needed straight away, Captain!”
    Ice ran through Jack’s blood. O’Malley never overreacted to situations. Never.
    “What is it?” Jack demanded.
    “Lady Regan, sir. She’s had a bit of a barney with some London toughs and Mr. Brent was knocked straight out into next week.”
    Jack slammed his cup to his desk. The china cracked under his hand as he shoved his chair back and rose. Damnation. He strode around the side of his desk. “Where is she? Is she here?”
    O’Malley gulped for air. “Down in the side parlor. Yer private parlor.”
    “Good.” Jack strode back towards his desk and the wood panel that led into his private filing room. “And Lady Regan? Is she harmed?”
    “I’ve already sent for some hot water and alcohol for her wound.”
    Jack froze. His heart thudded sharply in his chest. “Wound?”
    “Yes. She’s a bit damaged.”
    Christ .
    Jack yanked open the wood door and charged into the dark room. He pulled on the catch just above his tall, mahogany file cabinet and it swung open. Grabbing a candle, he lit it, then held it high, as he ran down the stairs.
    He should have listened to his gut. It was never wrong. Lady Regan was not safe and, despite the irregularity, he should have seen to her himself.
    When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he straightened his shoulders then stepped into the space behind the green china screen that blocked off the rest of the room. He forced himself to take in a slow breath then stepped into the room.
    Firelight flickered over her black dress and tangled, red hair. She sat on the burgundy settee, her face forward, staring towards the crackling fire.
    “Lady Regan?” he asked, softening his voice.
    She turned toward him.
    Jack hid a wince at seeing her swollen cheek which glowed purple and cushioned an angry, red cut down its center.
    A flash of a deeper, though similar, scar running down a woman’s face invaded Jack’s mind. The woman screamed as blood poured from down her neck and over the folds of her green gown. Wounded by one of her customers , Jack forced the image of his mother back into its customary cage.
    He strode to Lady Regan and crouched before her. She quietly stared back at him, her blue eyes wide and wary. Yet, surprisingly, she was calm. Her hands were clasped and her dress rustled as she sat up straighter. The black folds clung to her legs like wet rags.
    “Good God, you’re not only hurt, you’re soaked.” Jack stood and crossed to the chest of drawers near the secret door. He yanked open the top drawer and pulled out a pair of his trousers and a linen shirt. Fisting the soft linen and wool material, he turned towards her. “Put these on.”
    She refolded her gloved hands and shook her wet head, the long strands of red sticking to her neck. “I assure you, Captain Hazard, that is not necessary.”
    “Assure me all you like. I won’t have you dead of a fever.” Jack