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  Kit shook her head. ‘Why should Carshalton recognise your name?’

  ‘He might not,’ Psyché said quietly. ‘But Lucius will. And I’m afraid he will also know who lives at Moresby House’

  ‘Oh.’ Kit paled.

  Will frowned. ‘Lucius?’

  Psyché nodded. ‘Staverton’s heir. My uncle, Lucius Winthrop. He’s the man Carshalton was selling Kit to.’

  ‘Selling?’ He hadn’t thought of it quite like that—

  She shrugged. ‘What else would you call it when she had no say in the matter? And even if she does have a say in it, once a woman is married, she no longer owns her own body, let alone anything else. She has no rights beyond what her husband chooses to grant.’

  Will stared at her. Good lord! The woman was a radical!

  He forced himself to concentrate on the main issue. ‘So your uncle intends to marry Kit.’

  Her mouth twisted.

  ‘I can assure you Lucius does not acknowledge that connection. He hates me.’ Her voice was calm, but beneath the surface Will sensed—fear? One hand gripped the arm of the sofa so hard the knuckles showed pale.

  He reached out and covered that hand with his own. ‘Why?’

  For a moment she just stared. At him, then at their hands. And slowly, under his, he felt the tension in her fingers ease.

  She let a breath. ‘For a start, because Uncle Theo brought me up as a member of the family, which meant I was immediately a very visible stain on the family name. An embarrassment. That alone would be enough, would it not?’ She tugged gently on her hand, but he held on. It felt absolutely right exactly where it was.

  ‘No.’ There was no reason sufficient for hating a child.

  She sighed. ‘Apart from that, I cost him the inheritance he would have had from my father.’

  ‘Life is full of disappointments,’ he said mildly.

  The small choke of laughter charmed him. ‘True,’ she said. ‘But for someone like Lucius to lose an inheritance he’d counted his own to the Black, illegitimate daughter of a slave?’

  Kit made a small, distressed sound.

  Psyché glanced over. ‘I was born a slave, Kit, and that is how Lucius sees me.’

  Despite the lightness of her tone, Will heard the core of pain and his fingers tightened. ‘The way I’m seeing it you are also his brother’s acknowledged daughter.’

  ‘Perspective is all,’ she said quietly. ‘One may approach any object from several directions and I am afraid Lucius has always seen that particular object from the other side.’

  ‘He’s looking in the wrong direction then,’ Will said simply, releasing her hand. ‘However, we do need to find somewhere else to hide Miss Carshalton.’

  ‘But where?’ Psyché demanded.

  He turned to Kit. ‘Do you have no friend, no relative beyond Selbourne who would agree to hide you?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. There’s no one. That’s why he’s so sure I must be close by.’

  Will looked at Psyché questioningly.

  She shook her head. ‘No. Uncle Theo might be willing, but the risk of servants’ talk is too great. And there is no one else I could call upon. What about Huntercombe’s Isleworth house?’

  Will let out a breath. ‘I thought of that. He keeps it lightly staffed. But for me to appear there and install a young lady—’

  ‘The gossip would beat you back to London,’ Psyché said. ‘If he were here himself it might be possible—he could pass her off as a poor relation, or a potential governess.’

  Will considered. ‘That’s an idea. Look, the Runners won’t come back tonight. And tomorrow is Sunday. We have time to think on it. I’ll leave you two and—’

  Psyché shook her head.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s barely an hour since I shut the shop. You’d better stay for supper. Otherwise your early departure might raise questions—’

  ‘My—? Oh.’ Heat crept up his throat. ‘You do know that this is an extraordinarily improper sort of conversation to be having?’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ Psyché didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. ‘But since they know you were eagerly awaiting me in my bed, it would be very odd if you left quite so soon.’

  He wondered if it was safe to breathe. The truth was that if indeed he had been waiting for Psyché to join him in that bed he would be unlikely to leave it willingly before dawn. And, since tomorrow was Sunday, even dawn would have been a push.

  He swallowed. ‘In the interests of authenticity then, why don’t I go down to the Red Lion and buy a jug of wine?’

  Psyché laughed. ‘That will make it quite a party. Very well.’ She rose. ‘I’ll let you out the front and see to supper.’

  * * *

  Psyché picked up the lamp and walked back downstairs, fiercely aware of Will on her heels. What had she been thinking to tease him like that—and in front of Kit—about being in her bed? Now he would be thinking...

  He’d be thinking the truth: that she was attracted to him, that she’d been flirting with him. It was folly! They had far more important things to occupy their minds. Like where they could hide Kit and how to get her there. There was no time for frivolities such as attraction, or flirting!

  ‘Whatever is on the range does smell very good.’

  She glanced back at his shadowed face. ‘I had to learn when I decided to come here. Believe me, my first efforts were rather hit-and-miss.’

  ‘But you learned.’

  ‘Yes.’ After Uncle Theo had reluctantly agreed to what he’d termed her ‘insane plan’ she’d invaded his kitchens and begged the cook to teach her.

  ‘Not the fancy things. Good, plain cooking that I can do myself. Soups, stews, rice dishes.’

  She had wanted recipes that could largely look after themselves on the back of the range while she ran the shop. She had also learned how to bake bread. The cook had insisted.

  ‘Easy enough, Miss Psyché, to do between other jobs. Rises all by itself while you’re doing something else, then twenty minutes in the oven and you’re done.’

  She had a loaf rising now.

  Reaching the kitchen area, she whipped the cloth off the dough risen in its tin, opened the oven and shot it in.

  ‘Bread, too?’

  She shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  ‘But—you’ve no servants,’ he pointed out. ‘How do you do it all?’

  She laughed. ‘That’s a man talking. Who is going to do it for me? Why should I not do these things for myself?’

  ‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t,’ he replied slowly as she walked with him to the front door. ‘But—you said you inherited your father’s fortune. Could you not live on the income of that?’

  ‘I prefer not to do so.’

  She shot back the top and bottom bolts, turned the key—and her pulse skipped as she found herself very gently nudged aside when she reached for the heavy bar.

  He set it down and regarded her with a half-smile, one hand resting just above her elbow. ‘Yes. I know you can do that for yourself, too. But I’d like to do it for you.’

  That smile did shocking things to her heart, to her mind. The gentle touch on her arm seared through the wool of her sleeve.

  ‘I find myself in a quandary, Miss Winthrop.’

  Her voice was likely to come out as a squeak, so she waited.

  ‘The thing is, after waiting all that time for you in your bed, and then strolling down to the tavern to fetch wine for our supper—presumably before repairing to your bed again—I have to wonder... Would you be likely to kiss me at the door?’

  She would definitely be likely to kiss him, but—’And that puts you in a quandary, Mr Barclay?’

  ‘Will. If I’m thinking about kissing a woman, I’d rather she called me Will.’

  �
�Will, then. How is that a quandary?’

  ‘Because I do not wish to take advantage of the situation,’ he said simply, ‘if you would rather not kiss me.’ She heard his indrawn breath. ‘Nor do I wish you to kiss me merely to make a show for anyone who may be watching.’

  Oh. Dangerous.

  ‘Why not?’ She was amazed that she could find breath enough for the question. Her heart tripped and pounded as if she’d had far too much coffee. Plenty of men would have taken the kiss without worrying about such niceties.

  ‘Because I should not like you to imagine that I am only kissing you for those reasons.’

  She opened the door and cold air slid in. ‘Can we agree then, sir, that we are taking mutual advantage of the situation to do something we both wish to do?’

  She reached up, brushed back that errant lock of hair and stepped into him.

  ‘We can do that,’ he said huskily as his arms closed about her.

  His lips were warm, smooth, soft. Tentative at first, not shy precisely, but wondering what she liked, finding out, moving in slow, gentle rhythms that lured her closer, had her relaxing even as tension coiled lightly in her belly and lit sparks under her skin. The promise of heat, of more, should more be wanted. And in the tension she felt in his body, the promise of demand, when demand was right. But now there was this whisper of a kiss and his arms that cradled her in complete joy and utter safety.

  He released her. Slowly. Stepped back. Slowly. And let out an audible, shaky breath that told her stepping back was the last thing he’d wanted to do.

  Feeling as if she tempted a simmering volcano, she reached up and touched his face lightly, tracing the line of his cheek, his jaw. Under her fingertips his jaw was slightly scratchy. Her breath caught, as she imagined how it might feel on her body.

  ‘Wine.’ His voice was definitely husky.

  ‘Wine.’ Her own voice trembled.

  Psyché stepped back inside and closing the door, leaned against it, forcing her lungs to do their job properly. After a moment, she remembered to flip the key in the lock. What in God’s name had she done?

  * * *

  It took Will a moment to orient himself and remember that the Red Lion was to the left. He walked down, glad of the bite of the wind, even the more than a hint of horse manure that wafted from the inn’s yard. Something had to reorder his wits after that sweetly chaste kiss had scattered them completely.

  Kissing her at all had been completely unfair. She was a woman in a very dangerous situation. If Kit had been found in that cellar this afternoon, it was probable that Psyché would have been dragged off charged with the abduction of an heiress. Kit’s testimony would have been useless—in fact, her father would have refused to allow her to testify.

  He walked into the spill of light from the tavern windows and became aware of footsteps hurrying behind him.

  He whirled, hand on his sword, ready for the shadowy figure.

  ‘It’s Selbourne. Ease up, boy.’

  ‘Your pardon, sir.’

  ‘No problem. Best to be alert around here, especially at night. I’m just off for my dinner. Care to join me?’

  ‘I have another engagement, sir.’ Will wondered if the old bookseller would put it together. ‘I’m fetching a jug of wine.’

  Selbourne’s brows shot up. ‘Are you indeed? Well, well, well. My compliments, boy. She’s a tasty piece.’

  Fury welled up and Will’s fists clenched themselves. ‘I—’

  ‘Play the game out.’

  It was barely audible, muttered out of the side of Selbourne’s mouth, but it jerked Will back to his senses.

  He clapped Selbourne on the back. ‘She is that.’ He opened the door of the tavern and noise and light spilled out. ‘An ale with you, Selbourne? I’ve time enough for that.’

  * * *

  In undertones, covered by the noise in the tap, Will made his report.

  ‘Move her?’ Selbourne frowned. ‘The question is—where?’

  ‘I’ll think,’ Will said. ‘The answer may be one of Huntercombe’s properties, but I suspect he’s too closely linked. Any whiff of his involvement and they’ll have Grosvenor Square watched and the Isleworth house as well. We might get her in, but we’d never keep it secret. I’ll look through his holdings and see if anything else—’

  ‘Taking a bit on yourself, aren’t you?’ Selbourne’s voice was cool. ‘You scarcely know the chit. Or is it her fortune?’

  Will dragged in a steadying breath against the surge of anger at the implication. ‘Have you considered the danger in which Miss Winthrop-Abeni stands?’ He didn’t bother to hide his fury, but kept his voice low. ‘Danger which you have brought upon her.’

  Selbourne let out a breath. ‘Stand down, lad. Yes, I’m deeply aware of that and I’d hoped to have Kit out of there much sooner, but—’ He grimaced. ‘I underestimated how closely Carshalton would watch me. Very well. Do what you can. With luck Hunt will be in London before the situation becomes critical. He’s the only other person I can trust in this.’

  Will tossed back the last of his ale and set the tankard down. ‘It’s critical now. We can’t wait for Huntercombe to reach town.’ He leaned forward. ‘Psyché believes, and I agree, that if Lucius Winthrop sees the Runners’ report he’ll suspect her involvement.’

  Selbourne cursed softly. ‘Staverton has been a customer of mine for decades. Winthrop would know that. And since Psyché acted as Staverton’s amanuensis for some years, he would be aware that I know her.’ He smiled. ‘It’s one reason Staverton and Huntercombe settled on that particular property for her—I was across the street to keep an eye on things.’

  Will looked at him. ‘She says that Winthrop hates her.’

  Selbourne grimaced. ‘He does. Hates and resents her. Not only because she inherited her father’s personal fortune, but he believes that Staverton made a laughing stock of him by acknowledging her. Staverton took extensive legal action in order to ensure Psyché and her fortune would be protected even after his death. He said he wouldn’t trust Winthrop over Psyché’s well-being as far as he could spit.’

  Will rose. ‘Huntercombe knows all this?’

  Selbourne nodded. ‘He’s one of her trustees, boy. Didn’t you know?’

  He hadn’t. But now Will saw that the situation was a great deal more complicated than he’d understood.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Highwood House, Hampstead—1791

  Psyché sat quietly on a sofa in the drawing room attending to her needlework, with Nyx curled up beside her. Aunt Grace, she thought, was very kind. She did like dogs, but she preferred them to remain outside. Yet she permitted Nyx inside and even on the sofa—as long as she remained on the carefully folded blanket placed there for her.

  So Psyché stitched and listened to the ladies’ conversation without appearing to do so. She had learned long ago that if you didn’t look up, or so much as flick an eyelid no matter what was said, adults assumed you either weren’t listening or didn’t understand what was being said. One or two of Aunt Grace’s visitors had resorted to very bad French this afternoon as an added safeguard. Aunt Grace had not bothered to inform them that Psyché spoke French. Mam had spoken French, just as well as the governess. Sometimes they had sat quietly together speaking in French, mending the father’s clothes, Mam showing her, teaching her the stitches. And sometimes, if there was no one close by, they might speak in the language of Mam’s childhood and, instead of being Psyché, she could be Abeni.

  ‘Tell me your day name again, Mam.’

  ‘Afua—because I was born on a Friday. And you are Abeni because God gave you to me on a Tuesday.’

  Names they kept secret, just for themselves because the father would not like it. But Uncle Theo and Aunt Grace did not mind. She could write Psyché Abeni Winthrop and not be afraid.

  ‘My dear Lady Staverton, I’
m sure it is a very Christian thing that you do—but one cannot know where such things may lead. Is it wise?’ The question was accompanied by a sideways glance at the sofa where Psyché sat sewing.

  ‘So far,’ Aunt Grace said drily, ‘it has led to a dog on the sofa and a new handkerchief apiece for Staverton and myself.’

  The ladies tittered.

  ‘How very droll, Lady Staverton,’ one lady cooed. ‘Still, I vow I should put my foot down should Mr Kidderburn suggest such a thing.’

  ‘Naturally one would not dream of questioning your judgement, Mrs Kidderburn.’ Aunt Grace sounded as though the fire poker had been stitched into her spine.

  ‘But is not your niece—your great-niece, that is—dear Lucius’s little girl to live with you?’ asked a long-nosed lady in deep purple. She turned to Mrs Kidderburn. ‘I dare say the creature will be an acceptable companion and later a lady’s maid.’ Another glance at the sofa. ‘She seems biddable enough.’

  Psyché clamped her lips together and concentrated on the needle sliding in and out, trailing rose-pink silk. Uncle Theo had given her a rose. He’d liked the red rose on his first new handkerchief. She hoped he would like a pink one.

  ‘I understand,’ continued Madam Purple Gown, ‘that Mr Lucius Winthrop is not at all sure of the wisdom of such a connection.’

  She made connection sound like something one of the peacocks left on the terrace.

  ‘My nephew,’ stated Aunt Grace, as she crooked her finger at Psyché, ‘is very free with his opinions. Psyché, dear child—would you be a good girl and carry the cups for me, please?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt.’ Psyché set her work down and slid off the sofa. She understood that Aunt Grace was not treating her as a servant, but showing her to be a good daughter of the house. In addition, she was showing the ladies that she had excellent hearing and understood English. And that she was not a creature.

  Nyx came off the sofa and followed her as, one by one, Psyché distributed the cups, Aunt Grace murmuring each name and indicating which lady was which. Three ladies murmured their thanks, four, including Mrs Long in the purple gown, gave stiff little nods and were careful their fingers should not touch hers.