her scandal sheet for money? For revenge? As a small, secret rebellion?

So many emotions. Empathy. Anger. Frustration. But when he looked at Lady Hope he felt nothing but wonder.

“All these years, she’s been publishing. They all hang on her words. Yet no one noticed? No one thought to look. Until you.”

She was . . . he didn’t even know how to describe it. She was so different, so much more than any other woman he’d even known.

He took a step toward her—but movement in the alley below caught his eye. He turned.

“Someone is below.”

She moved to his side. “Be sure to stay back out of sight.”

A stack of crates sat down there, between their spot and the bakery door. A young girl had crept out from behind it.

“She must have been there all this time,” he said.

“She’s being careful. The crates are purposeful. They create a sheltered spot, one that cannot be seen from the street.”

The girl crept to the bakery door and peeked over the edge of the half door. She was young. Five years? Six? Thin and wearing a dirty smock. She scratched at the door and held something up. It looked like a coin.

The woman in the kitchen came at once. She carried one of the round loaves. It had been hollowed into a bowl and was filled with the stew. She gave it to the girl, who turned and beckoned.

An even smaller child crept out, hurrying to take the bowl. The woman brought another and the pair retreated again, going to their sheltered spot to eat.

“The woman didn’t take the coin.”

“It’s not a coin. It’s a token.” Lady Hope looked as serious as he’d ever seen her. “It’s a very great secret we trust you with, my lord. A program begun by Hestia Wright, of Half Moon House, several years ago. The children may come at any time the bakery is open. They present their token—it has a swan on it, for Le Cygne—and they are fed. No questions asked.”

Below, another figure had turned into the alley. A boy. A bit older. His feet were bare. He kept to the shadows, presented his token and bolted his bowl right there at the door, his shoulders hunched while he ate. Glancing over at the girls, he exchanged wary nods with the eldest and slunk back the way he’d come.

“The children make the choices and distribute the tokens. They must keep the secret, not rush the bakery or share the information with any who would come to make trouble or harass Madame out of misery or spite.”

“They are given responsibility for the continuation of the program,” he said, understanding.

“They have done very well. Incidents have been few. The Duchess of Aldmere, working with Hestia Wright, expanded the idea, founding another similar spot in Wapping. Gradually, she recruited other like-minded ladies in the ton, so that the program is beginning to spread across the city. The young lady I wished to tell you about today learned of it from her mother. They’ve opened the newest spot, out of a chop house near Lincolns Inn Fields.”

He was mulling it all over. “The tokens are brilliant. And the idea that they must protect the program. It unites them and makes them a part of it. It’s all so . . .” He shook his head. “Vast. So much bigger than my poor efforts. The sheer enormity of it—it boggles the mind.” He shook his head. “Started by a former courtesan and continued by the attention and generosity of Society ladies—and no one has the least notion of it.”

He bowed his head. The turmoil inside of him grew larger and darker and so much more difficult to resist. “I don’t wish for you to continue your campaign,” he said roughly.

“No?” She sounded startled.

“No. You’ve won. You’ve convinced me. There are good and decent women in all levels of Society. People willing to work hard and care for family and others, too.”

His pulse thundered. His temple throbbed. He lifted his head and stared at her. “I am convinced—and I know what I am supposed to do now. I should be asking you to introduce me to one or two or more of these paragons. Because I assume they have the appropriate requirements—single status and a good deal of money. Am I right?”

She exhaled a long breath and said nothing.

“How am I supposed to ask such a thing?” he demanded.

“They are simple words.” Her eyes glittered, sharp and bright. “Just ask.”

“I cannot. And you know why.”

Her cheeks were glowing.

Only the soft, quick sound of their breathing lived in the quiet of the room. Her pulse fluttered at her throat.

He pulled in a ragged breath. His skin had gone too tight. He felt feverish and furious and bursting with anger and thwarted desire. “I don’t want some mythically kind girl with a bulging dowry, Hope. I want you.”

In her face he saw the same sort of hope and pain and need that were tearing him apart inside.

He stepped close. He touched her waist and then allowed his hand to continue on, settling into the beckoning curve of the small of her back.

Her face turned up. She looked fierce and proud and yearning—and he knew she would not be the one to initiate this kiss.

He shouldn’t.

But he did.

And it was glorious and lovely and right. She melted beneath him and they flowed together, two rivers of desire joining into one in a confluence of rough, raw emotion.

It took almost no time to coax her mouth to open to

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