All Through the Night

London December 1817

“There’s nowhere to run,” Jack said as if reading the thief’s mind. “My men are in the outer hail and I…” —he shrugged apologetically, lifting his hands— “well, I am here.”

“So you are,” the Wraith murmured.

Abruptly Seward tilted his seal-sleek head. Even in the dark, one could discern the intensity with which he suddenly listened.

Damn. The thief had only one trump card to play —surprise— and that was a long shot. Jack Seward looked as if he’d given up being surprised a long, long time ago. Yet there was no other option. If unmasked… Well, there was only one possible end for a thief: the Tyburn Tree.

“Right-o, Cap,” the thief said, using Seward’s former rank and swaggering forth with hard-feigned bravado. “You got me fair and square. But why, I’m wonderin’, ain’t you screamin’ to your lads for help?”

“Very good. Very astute, lad,” Seward said approvingly. “But not so fast, if you please. I’d like to see your hands, above your shoulders and straight from your body. Anyone as good with a pick-lock as you are is bound to be just as good with a sticker.”

“Right, mate. But I don’t carry no knife. Bloodlettin’ ain’t what you’d call a gentlemanly trade, and I —within me means a’ course— am a gentleman.” A bit closer now.

This close the shadows lifted from Seward’s angular face revealing a scar-broken brow, a long mouth mobile with intelligence, and quiet, watchful gray eyes.

“Just what sorta deal is it you look to be strikin’? You wants a bit of the take? A little somethin’ to turn the blind eye?”

“No,” Seward said. “I want something you’ve already stolen.”

“Oh.” What? the thief wondered desperately, measuring the distance to the window, all the while still moving closer to Seward.

What could possibly be so important that Whitehall’s Hound had been sent to retrieve it? Nothing taken had been priceless. Indeed, there were never any family heirlooms in the take, nothing anyone would bother to raise a sustained hue and cry about. No, nothing —nothing— justified the involvement of the War Office’s premier agent.

“I told you to stop moving,” Seward said, his gentle voice assuming a subtle mantle of deadliness.

The thief shuddered, a tincture of unhealthy pleasure spurring on a sudden, reckless decision. Lately, more and more often, audacity proved irresistible, the urge to give in to it irrepressible. Like now.

“Right you are, Cap.” Nearly within arm’s reach. There would be no second opportunity to catch Seward off guard. “But I told you, I ain’t got no sticker. And we don’t want the lads in the hail there to get wind of any deal we might be conductin’, now do we? Pat me down if you don’t believe me. Go on, satisfy yerself before we begins negotiations.”

Seward’s eyes narrowed at the same time his crippled hand shot out, seizing the thief’s wrist. There was surprising strength in, the twisted fingers. The Wraith jerked back, instinctively fighting the implacable hold until it became clear any struggle could end only with Seward the victor.

“I believe I will, at that,” Seward murmured, pulling the black wool-clad figure against his hard chest and securing both wrists. Quickly and efficiently he swept his free hand down over the thief’s shoulders and flanks, hips, thighs, and legs. He moved back up, his touch passing lightly over the thief’s chest.

He stopped, pale eyes gleaming with sudden intensity, and quickly jerked the slight body forward by the belt. His band dipped down, clamping hard on the juncture between the legs in a touch both violently intimate and absolutely impersonal.

“My God,” Seward said, dropping his hand as if burned, though the other still clenched the belt, “you’re a woman.”

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