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Silence.

Whoever it was, they stilled but only for a moment.

When they moved again, they sat up, propping themselves against the far wall, mirroring his own position.

His voice sharpened, the edge of a blade in his tone. “Who the fuck is there?”

For a moment, there was a beat of silence. And then an exhale of someone too tired to even respond.

“You know who’s here,” finally came the answer.

He knew that voice.

He recognized her instantly. It was the woman responsible for his capture.

* * *

Fourteen days earlier…

Gideon adjusted his evening gloves, checking his reflection in the hall mirror. His black coat fit perfectly, and his cravat was tied in neat folds. He looked every inch the gentleman preparing for an evening out.

He was heading to Kensington’s charity ball—not to revel in festivities, of course, nor even to donate to the cause. He had a mission of his own.

He’d heard that Norfolk would be there, and he hoped to catch him alone in an empty, dark room.

And that was it. That was the only reason for the flutter in his belly.

It was not because he’d heard that Leila was going to be there, too.

No. He was determined to avoid the woman completely. She was trouble for him emotionally, and she was trouble for him physically. She was trouble. Period.

Someone was after her, and Gideon couldn’t stick his nose where it didn’t belong. He had enough problems of his own.

He wasn’t a knight in shining armor. He wasn’t a savior of damsels in distress. She’d have to deal with her issues on her own.

The butler appeared with Gideon’s cloak and walking stick. “Your carriage is ready, my lord.”

“Excellent.” Gideon put on his hat and curled his fingers around the cool wolf-head of his walking stick.

The butler moved to open the front door. The heavy door swung open to reveal the silhouette of a man on the doorstep, his hand raised to knock.

He paused, startled, then stepped forward, the light from the house illuminating his face.

He was nearly as tall as Gideon, muscular, with dark hair and even darker eyes. Stubble covered his jaw, and his simple clothes marked him as no aristocrat.

Everything about him screamed danger.

Ford Gunning.

Gideon’s stomach dropped, though he kept his face impassive. The thief-taker’s reputation was legendary. He was the best manhunter in London.

He was straight-laced, vicious, and incorruptible.

But most importantly, Ford Gunning didn’t make social calls.

“What do you want, Gunning?” Gideon barked.

Gunning didn’t react to his rudeness. “Will you not invite me in?”