miss it, don't you?'
'No,' he said lightly.
'The truth,' she insisted with a frown.
Catching her hand in his, Nick drew her along the path beside the lake.
'I do miss it,' he admitted. 'I've been a thief-taker for too long. I like the challenge of it. I like the feeling of outwitting those bastards on the streets. I know how they think. Each time I hunt down an escaped murderer, or some filthy rapist, and throw him into the Bow Street strongroom, it gives me a satisfaction like nothing else. I...' He paused, searching for the right words. 'I've won the game.'
'Game?' Lottie repeated carefully. 'Is that how you think of it?'
'All the runners do. You have to, if you're going to outfox your opponent. You need to stay detached, otherwise you'll get distracted.'
'It must have been quite difficult at times, to maintain your detachment.'
'Never,' he assured her. 'It's always been easy for me to shut away my feelings.'
'I see.'
But while Lottie seemed to understand what he was telling her, there was a barely perceptible edge of skepticism in her tone. As if she doubted that he still had the ability to remain completely emotionless. Troubled and annoyed, Nick fell silent as they continued around the lake. And he told himself that he could hardly wait to leave the idyllic scenery of Worcestershire and return to London.
CHAPTER 14
'You're going to Bow Street today, aren't you?' Lottie asked, cradling a cup of tea in her hands as she watched Nick devour a large plate of eggs, fruit, and currant bread.
Nick glanced at her with a deliberately bland smile. 'Why do you ask?' Since they had returned from Worcestershire three days earlier, he had met with bankers, hired an estate agent, visited his tailor, and spent an afternoon at Tom's coffeehouse with friends. For all Lottie knew, today would proceed in much the same manner- but somehow her intuition had led her to suspect otherwise.
'Because you have a certain look in your eyes whenever you go to meet Sir Grant or anyone else at Bow Street.'
Nick could not help grinning at his wife's suspicious expression. She had the instincts and the tenacity of a rat terrier-and he considered that a compliment, though she would probably not. 'As it happens, I'm not going to Bow Street,' he said mildly. It was the truth, although only in the most technical sense. 'I'm just going to visit a friend. Eddie Sayer. I've told you about him before, remember?'
'Yes, he's one of the runners.' Lottie's eyes narrowed above the delicate edge of her teacup. 'What are the two of you planning? You're not going to do something dangerous, are you?'
Her voice contained an edge of apprehension, and her gaze swept over him with a possessive concern that made his heart knock hard in his chest. Nick struggled to understand what those signs meant. It almost seemed as if she was worried for him, that his safety mattered to her. She had never looked at him that way before, and he was not certain how to react.
Carefully he reached out and pulled her from the chair, settling her on his lap. 'Nothing dangerous at all,' he said against the softness of her cheek. Intoxicated by the taste of her skin, he worked his way to her ear and touched the delicate lobe with the tip of his tongue. 'I would hardly risk coming home to you in less than full working order.'
Lottie squirmed in his lap, and the movement drew a surge of heat to his loins. 'Where are you and Mr. Sayer going to meet?' she persisted.
Ignoring the question, Nick ran his hand over the bodice of her morning dress, made of a soft white fabric printed with tiny flowers and leaves. The scooped neckline revealed the tender line of her throat, presenting a temptation too potent to resist. Lowering his mouth to her neck, he kissed her sweet, downy skin, while his hand stole beneath the rustling layers of her skirts.
'You're not going to distract me that way,' Lottie told him, but he heard the hitch of her breath when he found the smooth reach of her thigh. He made a discovery that sent a wash of sexual interest through his body, his cock rising vigorously against the shape of her bottom.
'You're not wearing drawers,' he murmured, his hand wandering avidly over her bare limbs.
'It's too hot today,' she said breathlessly, wiggling to evade him, pushing ineffectually at the mound of his hand beneath her dress. 'I most certainly didnot discard them for your benefit, and...Nick, stop that. The maid is going to come in at any moment.' 'Then I'll have to be fast.'
'You'renever fast. Nick...oh...'
Her body curled against his as he reached the patch of hair between her thighs, the sweet cleft already rich with moisture as her well-tutored body responded to his touch. 'I'm going to do this to you next week at the Markenfields' ball,' he said softly, running his thumb along the humid seam of her sex. 'I'm going to take you to some private corner...and pull up the front of your dress, and stroke and tease you until you come.'
'No,' she protested faintly, her eyes closing as she felt his long middle finger slide inside her.
'Oh, yes.' Nick withdrew his wet finger and ruthlessly tickled the softly straining crest until he felt her body tensing rhythmically in his lap. 'I'll keep you quiet with my mouth,' he whispered. 'And I'll be kissing you when you climax with my fingers inside you...like this...' He thrust his two middle fingers inside the warm, pulsing channel and covered her lips with his as she moaned and shuddered violently.
When he had siphoned the last few shivers of pleasure from her body, Nick lifted his mouth and smiled smugly into her flushed face. 'Was that fast enough for you?'
The brief interlude at the breakfast table left Nick's senses pleasantly awakened and his mind filled with agreeable thoughts about what would happen when he returned home later in the day. In good spirits, he hired a hackney to convey him to his meeting place with Eddie Sayer. It would not have been wise to take a good horse or a private carriage to the Blood Bowl Tavern, a favorite criminal haunt, or 'bastard sanctuary.'
Nick had long been familiar with the Blood Bowl, as it was part of the area around Fleet Ditch where he had once owned a flash house. Fleet Ditch, London's main sewer, cut through a region of massive criminal activity. It was arguably the heart of the underworld, situated amidst four prisons including Newgate, the Fleet, and Bridewell.
For years Nick had known no other home. At the height of his career as a crime lord, Nick had rented an elegant office in town to meet with upper-class clients and bank representatives who were understandably reluctant to go to Fleet Ditch. However, he had spent the majority of his time in a flash house not far from the ditch, gradually becoming inured to the perpetual stink. There he had schemed, set traps, and skillfully amassed a network of smugglers and informants. He had always expected to die rich and young, having agreed with the words of a criminal he had once seen hanged at Tyburn: 'A life has been well-spent if it be short but merry.'
But just before Nick had been about to receive his well-deserved comeuppance, Sir Ross Cannon had stepped in with his infamous deal. Much as Nick hated to admit it, the years he had spent as a runner had been the best of his life. Although he had always resented Sir Ross's manipulations, there was no denying that his brother-in-law had changed his life for the better.
Nick glanced curiously at the dark, crowded streets, where swarms of people moved in and out of ramshackle buildings that were seemingly piled one atop the other. Coming here after having just left his clean, pretty wife in the serene little house on Betterton Street was jarring. And strangely, the anticipation of going on the hunt was not half as strong as it used to be. Nick had expected to feel the savage thrill of prowling through the most dangerous area in London, and instead...
He was damned if he wasn't half sorry that he had agreed to come help Sayer today.
But why? He was no coward, no pampered aristocrat. It was just...he had the perplexing feeling that he did not belong here anymore. He had something to lose, and he did not want to risk it.
Shaking his head in confusion, Nick entered the Blood Bowl and found Sayer waiting at a table in a dark corner. The tavern was as rank and filthy and crowded as ever, smelling like refuse, gin, and bodily odors.
Sayer greeted him with a friendly grin. Young, dashing, and large-framed, Sayer was undoubtedly the best runner that Sir Grant had now that Nick had left the force. Although Nick was glad to see his friend, he had an odd sinking feeling as he saw the gleam of reckless excitement in Sayer's eyes and realized that he did not share it. Nick
