“Perhaps he will marry again someday.”

Eliza shrugged and smiled. “Gor, there are many fine ladies who would have him! They come to his office to ask him to help with their charities, or to complain about pickpockets and such. But it’s plain they hope to catch his eye. And the less interest he shows, the more they pursue him.”

“Sir Ross is sometimes called the Monk of Bow Street,” Sophia murmured. “Does that mean he never…” She paused as a blush climbed her cheeks.

“Only he knows for certain,” Eliza said thoughtfully.“‘Twould be a pity, wouldn’t it? A waste of a good, healthy man.” Her crooked teeth flashed in a grin, and she winked at Sophia. “But I think someday the right woman will know how to tempt him, don’t you?”

Yes, Sophia thought with a swirl of satisfaction. She would be the one to end Sir Ross’s monkish ways. She would win his trust, perhaps even his love… and she would use it to destroy him.

As news traveled fast on Bow Street, Ross was unsurprised when a knock came on the door not a quarter hour after Sophia had left. One of the assistant magistrates, Sir Grant Morgan, entered the office. “Good morning, Cannon,” Grant Morgan said, his green eyes alight with good humor. No one could doubt that Morgan was enjoying his life as a newlywed. The other runners were both envious and entertained by the fact that the formerly stoic Morgan was so openly in love with his small, red-haired wife.

At a height of nearly six and a half feet, Grant Morgan was the only man Ross had to physically look up to. An orphan who had once worked at a Covent Garden fishmonger’s stall, Morgan had enlisted in the foot patrol at age eighteen and been rapidly promoted through the ranks until Ross had selected him to join the elite force of a half-dozen runners. Recently he had been appointed to serve as assistant magistrate. Morgan was a good man, steady and intelligent, and one of the few people in the world whom Ross trusted.

Pulling the visitor’s chair up to the desk, Morgan lowered his gigantic frame onto the leather seat. He gave Ross a speculative stare. “I caught a glimpse of Miss Sydney,” he remarked. “Vickery told me that she is your new assistant. Naturally I replied that he must have been mistaken.”

“Why?”

“Because hiring a woman for such a position would be impractical. Furthermore, enlisting a woman as comely as Miss Sydney to work at Bow Street would be damned foolish. And since I have never known you to be impractical or foolish, I told Vickery that he was wrong.”

“He’s right,” Ross muttered.

Leaning to the side, Morgan rested his chin in the bracket of his thumb and forefinger and contemplated the Chief Magistrate speculatively. “She’s going to be a clerk and file-keeper? And take depositions from footpads and highwaymen and buttock-and-file whores and—”

“Yes,” Ross snapped.

Morgan’s thick brows climbed halfway up his forehead. “To point out the obvious, every man who passes through this place—runners not excepted—is going to be on her like flies on a honeypot. She won’t be able to get a damned thing done. Miss Sydney is trouble, and you know it.” He paused and remarked idly, “What interests me is why you chose to hire her anyway.”

“It’s none of your business. Miss Sydney is my employee. I’ll hire anyone I damn well want to, and the men had better leave her alone or answer to me.”

Morgan stared at him in an assessing way that Ross didn’t like. “My pardon,” he said softly. “You seem to be rather touchy on the subject.”

“I’m not touchy, dammit!”

Morgan responded with a supremely annoying grin. “I believe this is the first time I’ve ever heard you swear, Cannon.”

Too late, Ross understood the source of Morgan’s amusement. Somehow his normally emotionless facade had cracked. He fought to mask his irritation, drumming his fingers on the desk in an impatient staccato.

Morgan watched his struggle with a lingering grin. Apparently he could not resist making one more comment. “Well, there is one point that no one will dispute—she makes a prettier clerk than Vickery.”

Ross pinned him with a forbidding stare. “Morgan, the next time I advertise for an employee, I will make certain to hire some long-toothed old crone in the hopes of pleasing you. Now, may we turn the discussion to some other matter… perhaps even something relating to work?”

“By all means,” Morgan said agreeably. “Actually, I came to give you the latest report on Nick Gentry.”

Ross’s eyes narrowed at the news. Of all the criminals he desired to be caught, tried, and hanged, Gentry was easily the first on the list. He was the opposite of everything Ross sought to uphold.

Taking advantage of the law that gave rewards to any citizen who apprehended a highwayman, burglar, or deserter, Nick Gentry and his men had established an office in London and set themselves up as professional thief-takers. When Gentry caught a highwayman, he received not only a commission upon conviction, but also the highwayman’s horse, arms, and money. If he recovered stolen goods, he not only charged a fee, he also took a percentage of the property’s value. When Gentry and his men could not gather enough evidence against a particular felon, they planted or manufactured some. They also seduced young boys into crime, purely for the purpose of arresting them later and collecting the bounties.

Gentry was regarded with both admiration and fear in the underworld, where he was the undisputed king. His office had become the rendezvous for every criminal of note in England. Gentry was guilty of all kinds of corruption, including fraud, bribery, thievery, and even murder. Most maddening of all, the man was regarded by much of London as some sort of public benefactor. He cut a dashing figure in his fine clothes, riding his big black horse through the alleys and thoroughfares of London. Small boys dreamed of growing up to be like him. Women of high or low birth were excited by his intriguing appearance.

“I’d like to see that bastard dance in the wind,” Ross muttered. “Tell me what you have.”

“We have witness accounts that Gentry arranged for the escape of three of his men from Newgate. The clerk has already taken two depositions.”

Ross went very still, in the manner of a predator catching scent of its most desired prey. “Bring him in for questioning,” he said. “And do it quickly, before he goes to ground.”

Morgan nodded, knowing that if Gentry caught wind of danger and decided to go into hiding, he would be impossible to locate. “I assume you’ll want to question him yourself?”

Ross nodded. Ordinarily he would have left such matters in Morgan’s capable hands, but not when Nick Gentry was involved. Gentry was his personal adversary, and Ross had devoted a great deal of effort to bringing the wily thief-taker down.

“Very well, sir.” Morgan unfolded his long frame from the chair and stood. “I’ll have Gentry taken into custody as soon as he is located. I’ll dispatch Sayer and Gee immediately.” He paused, and a wry smile softened the hard angles of his face. “That is, if they are not too busy ogling your assistant.”

Ross suppressed a biting reply with great difficulty, his normally controlled temper igniting at the idea of Sophia Sydney being harassed by his own men. “Do something for me, Morgan,” he said through tight lips. “Make it known that if any of my runners or any member of the foot or horse patrol bothers Miss Sydney, they will regret it.”

“Yes, sir.” Morgan turned to leave, but not before Ross saw the hint of a smile on his lips.

“What is so bloody amusing?”

Morgan replied in a bland tone. “I was merely reflecting, sir, that you may come to regret not hiring a long-toothed old crone.”

After partaking of an evening meal of warmed-over mutton stew, Sophia unpacked her belongings in the upstairs room that had been given to her. The room was tiny, and it had been furnished simply. However, it was clean, and the bed seemed comfortable, and there was another advantage that Sophia liked. Her window faced the west side of Bow Street No. 3, allowing her to see directly into Cannon’s office. The lamplight outlined the shape of his dark head and highlighted the hard edge of his profile as he turned toward his bookshelves. It was late, and he should have retired for the evening. At the very least, he should be enjoying a good supper instead of the unappetizing dish of mutton stew that Eliza had sent over.

Sophia changed into her night rail and returned to the window, watching as Cannon rubbed his face and bent diligently over his desk. She thought of all the things Eliza and Lucie had told her about the Chief Magistrate. With the typical servants’ love of gossip, they had provided a great deal of information.

It seemed that Sir Ross’s supporters, of which there were many, revered him for his compassion, whereas an equal number of critics denounced him for his sternness. He was the most powerful magistrate in England, even acting as an unofficial adviser to the government. He trained his runners with progressive new methods, applying scientific principles to law enforcement in a way that earned both admiration and mistrust from the public. Sophia had been entertained as Eliza and Lucie attempted to explain how the runners sometimes solved crimes by examining teeth, hair, bullets, and wounds. None of it made sense to her, but apparently Sir Ross’s techniques had untangled mysteries as intricate as the Gordian knot.

The servants held Sir Ross in high regard, as did everyone else who worked at Bow Street. Sophia came to the unsettling realization that the magistrate was not the entirely evil person she had considered him to be. It did not change her resolve to avenge John’s death, however. In fact, strict adherence to principle was probably what had led to the tragedy that had claimed her brother’s life. No doubt Sir Ross lived by the letter of the law, putting principle above compassion, and legislation above mercy.

The thought caused Sophia’s anger to flare violently. Who was Sir Ross, that he should decide who lived or died? Why was he fit to sit in judgment upon others? Was he so infallible, so wise and perfect? He probably thought he was, the arrogant bastard.

But she was perplexed by the memory of his easy forgiveness that morning, when she had confessed the story of her short-lived affair. Most people would have condemned her as a harlot and said that her dismissal was well deserved. She had expected Sir Ross to censure her. Instead he seemed understanding and kind, and had even admitted that he himself had made mistakes.

Troubled, she nudged the frayed muslin curtain aside to gain a better view of his office window.

As if he could somehow feel Sophia’s gaze, Sir Ross turned and glanced directly at her. Although there was no lamp or candle burning in her room, the moonlight was sufficient to illuminate her. He could see that she was dressed only in the fragile night rail.

Being a gentleman, Sir Ross should have turned away immediately. But he stared at her intently, as if he were a hungry wolf and she were a rabbit that had ventured too far from the warren. Though Sophia’s entire body burned with embarrassment, she lingered to give him a good look. Silently she counted the seconds: one… two… three. Then she moved aside slowly, drew the curtain shut, and raised her palms to her flaming face. She should be pleased that he had shown an interest in what she looked like in her nightclothes. Instead she was profoundly uneasy, almost frightened—as if her plan to seduce and destroy him might somehow end in her own downfall.

Chapter 2

Ross began the day as usual, performing his morning ablutions with economic speed and dressing in his usual attire of a dark coat and gray trousers. He tied his black silk cravat in a simple knot, and brushed his hair until it settled neatly into place. Giving a cursory glance in the looking glass beside the washstand, he saw that the smudges beneath his eyes were more pronounced than usual. He had not slept well the previous night. He had been occupied with thoughts of Sophia, his body teeming with the awareness that she was sleeping only a few rooms away.It had been impossible to stop thinking about the moment when he had seen her at the window, her long hair streaming in ripples, her nightgown ghostly in the moonlight. Ross had been utterly seduced by the image, his blood coursing as he imagined what the female body beneath the gown might look like.

Scowling, Ross vowed that there would be no more nightly reveries concerning Sophia. No more fantasies, and certainly no more gazing at her window. From now on it would be work as usual.

Grimly determined, he went down to the kitchen, where he intended to fetch his first jug of coffee and carry it to his office. When that was done, he would take his daily walk through Covent Garden and the surrounding streets, much in the manner of a physician taking the pulse of a favorite patient. No matter how detailed the reports of the Bow Street runners were, there was nothing quite like seeing and hearing things for himself.

Ross took pleasure in the orderly progression of activities at Bow Street each day. Just after dawn, the bells of St. Paul’s rang through Covent Garden and along the tranquil shop fronts and residences of Bow Street. The sounds of market carts caused shutters to snap open and curtains to be drawn, as did the cries of muffin sellers and newspaper boys. At seven o’clock, smells of hot bread and rolls floated from the baker’s, and at eight, patrons would begin to drift through the opening doors of the coffeehouses. When nine o’clock arrived, people would gather at the Bow Street office, waiting for the clerks and officers to open the doors. At ten, the sitting magistrate—who happened to be Morgan today—would assume his place at court.

Everything as it should be, Ross thought with satisfaction.

As Ross entered the kitchen, he saw Ernest sitting at the scrubbed wooden table. The boy wolfed down a plate of breakfast as if it were the first decent meal he’d had in months. Sophia stood at the range with the scrawny cook-maid, apparently showing her how to prepare the morning’s fare. “Turn them like this,” Sophia was saying, expertly flipping a row of little cakes on a griddle pan. The kitchen atmosphere was especially fragrant today, spiced with frying bacon, coffee, and sizzling batter.

Sophia looked fresh and wholesome, the trim curves of her figure outlined by a white apron that covered her charcoal-gray dress. Her gleaming hair was pinned in a coil at the top of her head and tied with a blue ribbon. As she saw him standing in the doorway, a smile lit her sapphire eyes, and she was so dazzlingly pretty that Ross felt a painful jab low in his stomach.

“Good morning, Sir Ross,” she said. “Will you have some breakfast?”

“No, thank you,” he replied automatically. “Only a jug of coffee. I never…” He paused as the cook set a platter on the table. It was piled with steaming batter cakes sitting in a pool of blackberry sauce. He had a special fondness for blackberries.