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knew, had better marks, had more plans. But none of that had mattered.
    Stunned and dazed, he had been forced to strike out on his own, finding a rat-infested garret across the river in Cambridge, close to Harvard, where he had already made plans to attend. In the beginning he'd had to fight to survive, the only thing separating him from having to steal for food being baskets filled with meat and cheese, bread and milk. And always a cake—from Sophie.
    For months after leaving Hawthorne House, all he'd had were those baskets secretly delivered by servants. And the talking machine. Sophie's words and her gifts of food to sustain him. His eyes narrowed against the memory of the young boy he had been those first weeks. Scared. Cranking the handle of the talking machine over and over again in that drafty, thin-walled garret. The words surrounding him, blocking out the angry shouts and fights between grown men in the hallway.
    Eventually he had worked his way through Harvard College, culminating with his graduation from Harvard Law. But as long as he lived he would never forget that it was Sophie who had helped him when he needed it the most.
    Instead of hailing a hired hack, Grayson cut across the Public Gardens, a large expanse of land made of curving pathways, footbridges, and plants and trees imported from all over the world.
    When he came to the footbridge that would take him toward downtown and the courthouse, where he had planned to go, he veered off to the right and headed for Commonwealth Avenue. And Sophie.
    Sophie.
    A slow, deep breath filled his lungs. Despite himself, he wanted to see her. Needed to see her.
    He cursed the need, but somehow couldn't bring himself to change his direction. His thoughts hardened at the weakness, but then he told himself he simply needed to replace the memory of the bold, provocative woman he had seen last night.
    He wanted proof that he hadn't made the single biggest mistake of his life based on the foolish memory of a young girl and a long-ago kindness. Did he yearn only for someone who no longer existed? In the years since she had left Boston, had he in some way always been waiting for her return? And when she didn't, had he simply seen to it that she did?
    After he slipped out through the gate and wrought-iron fencing that surrounded the park, he had to stop for traffic before he could cross Arlington Street. The boulevard was packed, and the walkway was filled with warmly dressed pedestrians. When a gap came in the flow of carriages, he stepped off the granite-block curb onto the unevenly cobbled thoroughfare to start across. But he stopped in his tracks as a hired hack sped by. He would have sworn the woman inside was his mother.
    "Come on, stop holding everyone up," a washerwoman barked at him.
    But Grayson didn't move. The swarm of people who had been waiting to cross parted like a sea and hurried around him as he stared at the retreating carriage. But then he shook his head. That couldn't have been his mother. Emmaline Hawthorne didn't take public conveyances. Beyond that, he had been told she was still in bed.
    He continued on, and by the time he came to Swan's Grace, taking the front steps two at a time, he forgot about the woman in the hansom cab.
    All thoughts were replaced by music.
    Grayson stood for a moment, taking in the sound. His response was swift and intense as the notes soared. He had never heard the piece before, but the deep, yearning sound of the cello pulled at him. The melody was emotional and moving, and he had a fleeting understanding of why Sophie had become famous.
    He went to the door and halted. It was his house, his office, but with Sophie inside he felt an aggravating need to knock and did so. No one answered. After another knock he simply turned the knob, and realized the lock had been broken. It became clear how Sophie and her entourage had gotten in the house last night. A smile pulled at his lips and he shook his head. Hell, she really was a