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darkened cab.

    “Didn’t mean to startle you, Mrs. Bryce.”

    He pushed open the trapdoor.

    “Arden Square, Ned.”

    “Aye, sir.”

    The vehicle rumbled forward. Anthony dropped down onto the seat across from her.

    She knew at once that something had happened. A hot, seething energy emanated from him. She felt as though she was sharing the carriage with a panther that had just scented prey.

    “What kept you?” she said a good deal more sharply than she had intended. “I’ve been worried. You were gone for a very long time.”

    “Twenty minutes at most. Most of that time was spent in the garden, waiting for an opportunity to gain access to the house.”

    “Time does not pass quickly when one is waiting in a closed, unlit carriage.” She peered at him, trying to make out his features. “Are you all right? Was there a problem?”

    “Thank you for your concern. I am quite well, thank you. The only problem, such as it was, proved to be quite minor.”

    “You sound in remarkably good spirits for a man who has just risked his neck. Do you enjoy your work, sir?”

    He gave the question some thought and then shrugged. “The exercise does seem to have elevated my mood. What of yourself, madam? Do you derive a bit of a thrill from creeping about in other people’s bedrooms?”
    “No, I do not,” she said tightly. She raised her chin. “And there is no need to make it sound as though I am in the habit of doing that sort of thing.”

    “I see. You only flit through strange bedrooms when the fancy strikes, is that it? When was the first time you invaded someone’s bedroom?” he asked.

    A shiver of warning slithered down her spine.

    You’ve said enough, she thought. In spite of his assistance this evening, the plain fact is you do not know this man. You cannot take the risk of revealing your secrets to him.

    “Never mind,” she said. “Tell me what you found. Did you get the safe open?”

    “Certainly.” He turned up one of the lamps, reached into the voluminous coat and brought out a handful of papers. “These were all that were inside the safe.”

    She stared at him, astonished. “You took all of his personal papers?”

    “Yes. There wasn’t time to sort through them to find the specific papers you wanted so I grabbed the lot.”

    “Good grief.” What had she expected? He was a thief, after all. “I, uh, just wanted to know if there were any papers relating to the brothel inside the safe. I didn’t actually intend—” She broke off. “Never mind.”

    “Here.” He handed the papers to her. “See if you can find what you’re looking for in that bunch.”

    Gingerly she took the papers and held them up to the light.

    “They all appear to be business-related,” she said, rifling through them. “Most deal with his new
    investment scheme. I don’t see any relating to—” She stopped when she caught sight of a familiar address. Excitement stirred her pulse. “Ah, here we are. This one mentions the property at Number Twenty-two Winslow Lane.”

    She read through the document quickly and then looked up. “You have found the very document I was looking for, sir. According to this, Hastings recently invested a large sum of money in Phoenix House.”

    “Nothing like a satisfied client, I always say.” He took several small, leather-bound books out of various pockets. “May I hope for repeat business?”

    She ignored the teasing and examined the small books. “What have you got there?”

    “I’m not sure yet. I took them because most of them did not appear to belong to Hastings or his wife.”

    He handed a volume to her and opened one of the others to examine it.

    “This is a private journal,” Louisa said. She paused when she saw the name inscribed on one of the pages. “Good heavens, you’re right. It cannot possibly belong to Hastings. According to this, it is the diary of Miss Sara Brindle. She is set to marry Lord Mallenby at the end of the month. How on earth