“Ah, Miss Sydney… just the companion I was hoping for. No doubt you’ve come out here for a passionate tryst. Finally going to admit your feelings for me, eh?”

“Yes,” Sophia said dryly, having learned that the best way to deal with the runners was to match their irreverence. “I have finally been swept up in the romantic atmosphere of Bow Street. Where shall we tryst, Mr. Sayer?”

The tall young man grinned. “I’m afraid I shall have to disappoint you, my fair one. Cannon only gave me five minutes’ leave—not nearly enough time. Besides, I’m not one for trysting on hard stone. Please contain your disappointment.”

Sophia folded her arms and regarded him with a slight smile. “How is it in the strong room, Mr. Sayer?”

The runner sighed, suddenly looking weary. “Cannon hasn’t gotten much out of Gentry so far. It’s like trying to fell an oak with a butter knife. Cannon keeps chipping away at him, though.” He rubbed his face and groaned. “I suppose it is time for me to go back down there.”

“Good luck,” she said sympathetically, and watched him cross the courtyard back to the strong-room door.

The afternoon passed, and as evening approached, the mood of the crowd at Bow Street became more violent. Peering through the windows, Sophia saw that some of the protesters were carrying clubs, and there were small fires in the street where furniture had been brought and set alight. Bottles of liquor had been procured from The Brown Bear, the tavern opposite the public office, and the crowd was drinking freely. To Sophia’s horror, the homes on either side of the public office were being assaulted; windows were broken, and clubs and fists beat angrily on the barricaded doors.

When evening fell the mob had lost all reason. Ernest appeared at No. 4, telling Sophia and the servants to stay inside. The available runners were attempting to disperse the crowd. If they proved unsuccessful, they would summon help from the military.

“No need to worry,” Eliza said breathlessly, her face pale. “The runners will put down the riot. They’re good, brave men—they’ll keep us safe.”

“Where is Sir Ross?” Sophia asked Ernest, trying to remain calm, although the constant screaming of the mob was shredding her nerves.

“Still in the strong room with Gentry,” Ernest replied. “‘E says he’ll shoot Gentry himself before letting the crowd have ’im.”

As the boy dashed back to the adjoining building, Sophia returned to the window. She flinched as rocks and bottles were thrown, striking the house. “This is madness,” she exclaimed. “Does Sir Ross know how bad it is getting? Before long they’ll reduce the place to matchsticks!”

All three women jumped as a rock shattered the window, sending a shower of splintered glass to the floor.

“My God!” Eliza exclaimed.

“Heaven save us,” Lucie squealed, her eyes like saucers. “What should we do?”

“Stay away from the windows,” Sophia said shortly. “I’m going to the strong room.”

The noise outside was deafening, the air acrid with smoke. Although no one had yet managed to scale the iron fence, Sophia could see a ladder being passed over the top of the writhing mob. Lifting her skirts, she ran through the courtyard and wrenched open the door that led to the strong room.

Stairs descended to a dark void. She climbed down carefully, since the stone beneath her feet was slick. The walls were green with mold, and the air was permeated with a sour stench that reminded her of urine. Sophia heard the sound of masculine voices, Sir Ross’s among them. Following a dull glow at the bottom of the stairs, she found a narrow corridor that opened into a cellar-space. Lamplight flickered across the bars of three holding cells and cast a grid of shadows across the dirt floor. At the far end of the strong room, a table and chairs were positioned near a barred vent that gave onto the street level. The mob’s ceaseless roar filtered through the opening.

Sophia saw two runners, Sir Ross, and a tall, well-dressed man who lounged insolently near the vent. One shoulder was braced casually against the wall, while his hands were buried deep in the pockets of his coat. He must be Nick Gentry, Sophia thought. Before she had a glimpse of his face, however, Sir Ross turned and approached her in a few swift strides.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was edged with a savagery that made her flinch.

Despite the coolness of the room, Cannon was in his shirtsleeves, the broad shape of his shoulders and the heavy muscles of his arms visible through the clinging white linen. The neck of the shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the edge of a thick pelt of hair on his chest. Sophia’s startled gaze lifted to his face, which was hard and fierce, the gray eyes burning with wrath.

“I told you not to come down here,” he snapped. Although he was not precisely shouting, his voice was resonant with fury.

“I’m sorry, but there is something you must know—”

“When I tell you not to do something, you obey me, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”

“Yes, O lord and master,” Sophia said sarcastically, her tension and worry sparking into anger. “However, I thought you should be informed that the mob is about to overtake number four. The constables can’t hold them back much longer. They’re breaking the windows. If you don’t send for the military soon, they’ll burn both buildings to the ground.”

“Sayer.” Sir Ross turned to the runner. “Go have a look outside. If the situation warrants, send for a troop of horse guards.” He glanced back at Sophia. “And you—go upstairs and stay inside until I tell you otherwise.”

Stung by the sharp way he spoke to her, she nodded and left the strong room as fast as her feet could take her.

As the housekeeper left the strong room, Nick Gentry, who had been contemplating the barred window-vent, turned back around.

“Nice little piece,” he commented, obviously referring to Sophia. “Got ‘er working the brass for you, Cannon? I think I’ll take ’er when you’re done.”

Being familiar with street cant, Ross knew exactly what “working the brass” meant. It referred to a style of iron bed with brass knobs, and the activities that might take place on it. Usually the taunts of a prisoner had no effect on Ross. However, this seemed to be the one occasion when he couldn’t control himself. The reference to Sophia as if she were a common prostitute was all it took to sent his fury skyrocketing.

“Either close that hole in the middle of your face,” he snarled to Gentry, “or I’ll do it for you.”

Gentry grinned, clearly pleased with the success of his jab. “You’ve been trying to make me talk all day, and now you want me to shut my gob?”

Nick Gentry was well dressed and surprisingly young. He was also handsome, with dark hair and blue eyes and an easy smile. His accent, though not that of a gentleman, was far more refined than that of the average Cockney. One could almost mistake him for one of the aristocratic young bucks who spent their time gambling and chasing a light-skirt while they waited for their inheritances. But something about his face betrayed that he was a creature of the streets… a coldness that showed in the eyes and robbed the smile of all meaning. Somewhere in his past, Nick Gentry had learned that life was a bitter contest for dominance. He intended to win, and he played by no recognizable set of rules. Loyalty, fairness, mercy—these were qualities that he did not recognize. Ross found it amazing that a brutish bastard like Gentry had garnered so much support among the masses.

Gentry sent him a sly grin, as if he could read Ross’s thoughts. “You’ll have trouble on your hands tonight, Cannon. Listen to that crowd… they’ll smash this place to the ground if you don’t let me go.”

“You’re not going anywhere for the next two days,” Ross said. “You’re going to molder in the strong room for as long as I can legally keep you here. You may as well make yourself comfortable.”

“In this slosh-pot?” Gentry returned sourly. “Not bloody likely.”

Chapter 3

As Sophia emerged from the strong room, she was alarmed to discover that the mob had finally raged out of control. Men were climbing the fence and dropping to the ground, scurrying like rodents toward the building. A group of constables and horse patrols worked to disperse the rioters, but their efforts seemed to have little effect.She rushed inside No. 3 in search of safety, but unfortunately, it was no better there. It seemed that every room and hallway was filled, the walls reverberating with the sounds of angry shouting. Runners had arrested the most violent protesters and were taking them in handcuffed groups to the holding rooms.

One of the court clerks, Mr. Vickery, milled about with the night-charge book, trying frantically to record the names of those who had been arrested. Catching sight of Sophia, he called out something to her, but the noise in the hall was deafening. Go back, he seemed to be saying, waving with his hand for her to leave.

Sophia turned to obey, but more of the mob swarmed through the doors. She was jostled and shoved to the side, fighting to keep from being pushed beneath trampling feet. It was hot and deafening in the hall, and the smells of alcohol and unwashed bodies filled the air with a nasty stench. Sophia was crushed against the wall and jabbed by elbows and shoulders, her head bumping hard against the hard paneling.

Trying not to panic, Sophia looked for the court clerk, but he was no longer visible. “Mr. Vickery!” she cried, her voice lost amid the uproar. “Mr. Vickery!”

Some of the rioters began to paw at her bodice, rough hands seeking the shape of her breasts. The shoulder of her dress ripped, and the gleam of a white shoulder seemed to inflame them. Sophia shoved at the coarse hands, but she was jammed against the wall until the breath was driven from her lungs. Someone pulled at her hair, and her scalp smarted while tears of pain sprang to her eyes.

“Here, now,” a runner shouted indignantly, struggling to reach her. “Get your hands off her, you sodding bastards!”

Sophia turned away from the encroaching bodies, pressing the side of her face to the wall. She struggled for air as she was suffocated and mauled at the same time. Her ribs squeezed until it seemed they would crack. Her mind swam dizzily, and it became difficult for her to think. “Get away from me,” she gasped. “Stop it, stop, stop—”

Suddenly the pressure eased, and she heard the men around her grunting in pain. Stunned, Sophia turned to see a huge, dark shape plowing through the sea of tightly packed bodies. It was Sir Ross, his gray eyes focused on Sophia. There was a strange expression on his face, at once blank and violent. He was brutally efficient as he shoved and struck his way through the crowd, not seeming to care that he left a path of bruises and bloody noses in his wake.

Reaching Sophia, Sir Ross pulled her into his arms, making a protective cage of his own body and the wall. She attached herself to him with a sigh of relief, blindly accepting his protection. He was still in his shirtsleeves, the thin white linen imbued with the heat and scent of his skin. Huddling against his broad chest, Sophia heard the deep thunder of his voice as he shouted to the agitators that Nick Gentry would remain in custody, and that all those who had ventured inside the public office were going to be arrested and sent to Newgate. His words had an immediate effect. The intruders nearest the doors began to file outside rapidly, having no wish to be imprisoned at the stone jug, as the infamous prison was called.

“Jensen, Walker, Gee,” Sir Ross commanded the runners, “take your charges to the public house across the street and lock them in the cellar. Flagstad, send for more horse patrols to clear the crowd. Vickery, take names later. Right now, go outside and recite the Riot Act as loudly as you can.”

“Sir, I don’t remember the exact words of the Riot Act,” the court clerk said anxiously.

“Then make up something,” Sir Ross growled.

That remark seemed to amuse many of the protestors, and snorts of laughter burst through the hallway. As the runners began to move the men outside, the crush of bodies began to ease.

Sophia flinched as she felt someone fumbling at her skirts. She pressed closer to Sir Ross, her arms clutching around his lean midriff. Before she could say a word, he realized the problem.

“You!” Sir Ross snarled at the man behind her. “Lay a hand on this woman again, and you will lose it—along with other portions of your anatomy.”

Another rumble of laughter erupted all around.

Clasped safely in the circle of Sir Ross’s arms, Sophia marveled at the way he was able to dominate a crowd with his mere presence. Everything had been chaos, and he had restored order in less than a minute. The muscles of his back flexed as he pulled her between his thighs, holding her in the shelter of his body.

Sophia kept her cheek pressed to his chest, against the steady but rapid rhythm of his heart. Her nostrils were filled with the crisp scent of his shaving soap, the hint of coffee, and the salty tang of sweat. The thick dark curls of his chest tickled her cheek. Anthony had been smooth-chested. What would it be like to be held against this masculine wealth of hair? Swallowing hard, Sophia glanced at the shadow of day-old bristle that covered his jaw and upper throat. His huge hand rested on the center of her back, and she thought of how it might feel against her breast, his long fingers cupping her tender flesh, his thumb stroking her nipple…

My God—the frantic words swept through her brain—don’t think about it, don’t. But her body was filled with a strange, warm ache, and she could only breathe in shallow gasps. It was all she could do to keep from thrusting herself at him shamelessly, crushing her mouth against his.

“It’s all right.” His low whisper brushed against her ear. “Don’t be afraid.”

He had mistaken her trembling for fear. Good; it was far better that he think she was a silly coward, rather than suspect the truth. Mortified, Sophia tried to calm herself. She moistened her dry lips and spoke against his shirtfront. “I’m glad you finally decided to do something,” she said, trying to sound impudent. “You waited long enough.”

Ross made a soft sound that could be taken for either irritation or amusement. “I was busy with Gentry.”

“I thought I would be crushed,” she said shakily.

She was astonished as he cuddled her closer. “You’re safe,” he murmured. “No one is going to harm you.”

Realizing that he was more than ready to comfort her, Sophia decided that this was a golden opportunity to appeal to his protective streak. She knew Sir Ross well enough by now to be certain that he could not resist the lure of a damsel in distress. Although part of her cringed in embarrassment, she continued to cling to him as if she were overcome by fear.