"You don't need to know," Claybourne said.

The man smiled. "I treat far too many to remember all their names. I'm William Graves."

"You're a physician?" Catherine asked.

"Quite right." He placed his hand beneath hers with extreme gentleness, but she didn't grow warm, her breath didn't catch, and she didn't feel in danger of swooning.

"I'm Catherine," she felt compelled to say.

"Are you one of his rescued lambs?" he asked as he studied her wound.

"No, she is not," Claybourne snapped. He dragged a chair over and sat beside her. "You're not here for gossip. How badly is she hurt?"

"It's rather nasty, but it could have been worse." He lifted his gaze to hers. "I want to st.i.tch it up. It won't be pleasant, but it'll heal better, more quickly."

He seemed to be asking for her permission, so she nodded.

"Very good." He pressed a cloth to her palm. "Hold this in place while I prepare things. Luke, go fetch some whiskey."

He took objects out of his bag and laid them out on the table. Then making himself quite at home, he began moving around the kitchen, setting a kettle of water on the stove.

"You shouldn't bother with tea," Catherine said. "I really don't think I could drink it."

He smiled at her. "You'll be drinking the whiskey. The water is so I can keep things clean. I've noticed that those I treat in squalor tend to die of infection more so than those I treat in tidy houses."

Claybourne walked back in, holding a bottle and a gla.s.s filled to the brim. "Here, drink this."

Taking a sip of the bitter brew, she grimaced.

"All of it," he ordered.

"I don't know if I can."

"The more you drink, the better it tastes."

She took another sip. It didn't taste any better.

"It's not tea, gulp it," he ordered impatiently.

"Don't be tart with me. I saved your life."

Setting the bottle on the table, he sat again in the chair beside her. "Yes, you did."

He trailed his fingers tenderly along her cheek. It was all she could do not to turn her lips into his palm. She moved her head beyond his reach and concentrated on taking several gulps of the whiskey. It did seem the more she drank, the better it tasted. She was becoming light-headed, which made her want to curl up in Claybourne's lap and sleep, safe and secure.

Dr. Graves came to stand in front of her, took her wounded hand, and placed it on the table. "Close your eyes and think about something else."

She closed her eyes and started to think about- She took a sharp intake of breath and her eyes flew open as liquid fire poured over her palm. "Oh, dear G.o.d, what was that?"

"The whiskey," Dr. Graves said.

"You poured-"

"I think it kills germs. Try to relax. You're going to feel a stab-"

"Catherine?"

A warm hand cradled her cheek, turned her head. She gazed into eyes so silver, so filled with concern. "Think about something else," Claybourne ordered.

She shook her head, trying. To her mortification, she flinched and released a tiny squeak when she felt something sharp being jabbed into her flesh.

Claybourne leaned near and then his mouth was blanketing hers, skillfully plying her lips apart. Oh, the fool, did he not fear that she might bite down- He tasted of the whiskey that he'd ordered her to drink, and she wondered if he'd needed some to fortify himself for what she was about to endure. She didn't know if it was his whiskey mingling with hers or his mouth plundering hers that was such a distraction, but she was suddenly only vaguely aware of something happening with her palm and incredibly aware of the taste, feel, and tangy scent of Claybourne. His hands were rough in her hair. She heard a hairpin drop to the floor. She was surprised they didn't all tumble out.

Deepening the kiss, he swirled his tongue over hers, and she thought if she were standing that her knees would have been too weak to support her. She knew she should pull back, should slap him with her one good hand, but he was so incredibly delicious. And while she knew it wasn't desire for her that prompted his actions, but simply desire to distract her, still she was grateful for the moment, grateful to have one more opportunity to experience his kiss. She'd been haunted ever since he'd kissed her in the library. The kiss hadn't been nearly long enough then, and she knew that no matter when this kiss ended, it wouldn't be long enough either.

The kiss seemed to encompa.s.s more than her mouth. It seemed to reach into the very core of her womanhood and awaken yearnings she'd never before known. Desire rushed forward, dulling everything else. She knew she was wanton, loose, shameful to harbor this intense craving for him to come nearer, for him to press more than his lips against hers. She thought of all the warnings he'd given her that first night. She risked more than her reputation with him; she risked her heart.

"Luke? Luke, I'm finished."

Claybourne broke free of the kiss and drew back; he seemed as dazed as she.

"Not sure I've ever seen quite so inventive a distraction," the doctor said.

"Yes, well, it worked didn't it?" Claybourne got to his feet, s.n.a.t.c.hed up the gla.s.s of whiskey she'd set aside earlier, and downed the contents in one long swallow.

Oh, yes, it had worked. Her hand was not only st.i.tched but it was wrapped in a white bandage.

"It's common to feel dizzy after such an ordeal," Dr. Graves said. "Give yourself a few moments."

She nodded. "Thank you, thank you for your attentions. I a.s.sume Claybourne will pay you for your services."

"He paid me long ago."

"You're another one of Feagan's children, aren't you?"

He gave her a wry smile, before coming to his feet and beginning to put the tools of his trade back into his bag. "In about a week, anyone should be able to remove the st.i.tches for you. But if you'd rather I do it, just have Luke send word."

"Thank you," she said again.

"It was my honor to be of service." He snapped his bag closed, stopped to whisper something to Claybourne, and then made his way out the door, leaving her alone in the room with Claybourne. She dearly wanted him to move nearer, to touch her, to kiss her. The whiskey was influencing her thoughts. Or perhaps it was simply the ordeal of the night. Their surviving had created a bond between them that hadn't existed before.

"How will you explain it?" Claybourne asked.

"Pardon?" She felt as though her thoughts were moving through honey, especially those that concerned him. How would she explain wanting him to kiss her again?

"The hand?"

"Oh." She looked at it, turning it one way and another. It was aching. Perhaps she should drink more whiskey before she left. "I'll just say I cut it on a piece of gla.s.s or something. There's really no one to challenge me. One of the advantages to my brother traipsing all over the world."

"I should get you home now."

"Oh, yes, indeed."

To her surprise, in the coach, he didn't sit opposite her as a gentleman should, but he sat beside her, his arm around her, holding her as close as a dear friend-or dare she think it, as a lover?

"I'm sorry this happened," he said, his voice low and intimate within the confines of the coach.

She was incredibly exhausted. All she wanted to do was sleep. "Not to worry."

"About the kiss-"

"Don't be concerned. I shan't mention it to Frannie. I know it was the only recourse you had to distract me."

"I know some coin tricks, but I didn't think they'd be as effective."

"I'm certain they wouldn't have been." She sighed. "Are you attacked often?"

"From time to time, there have been dangers."

"Do you think it was Mr. Marcus Langdon?" She knew better than to refer to him as a cousin.

"My death would certainly expedite things for him, but unlike you and I, he's not of a bloodthirsty nature."

She brought her head up quickly, was immediately hit with a spinning world, and dropped her head back against his shoulder. "You think me bloodthirsty?"

"You want me to kill someone."

"Oh, yes. Quite." She'd almost forgotten what had brought her to his door. It was sometimes easy to forget-when Winnie wasn't bruised. When she seemed happy.

Was Catherine's solution a rash one?

As often as she'd lain awake at night pondering solutions before she'd approached Claybourne, she didn't see any other way. And yet sometimes her decision seemed extreme. If only two of Avendale's wives hadn't died mysteriously. If only he didn't take his fists to Winnie.

"Tell me about the rescued lambs," she said, needing a distraction from the discomfort of her thoughts and aching hand.

He groaned low as though irritated-or maybe embarra.s.sed-by the question and she thought he would leave it at that. Finally his low voice filled the coach, lulling her with its purring resonance.

"Each of us has our weakness. For Frannie, it's children. For me, it's unmarried mothers. It began innocently enough. One of my servants had a friend who found herself with child, and she was let go. I suspect the babe's father was the lord of the manor, but he wouldn't claim it. So I sent her to one of my lesser estates. I wasn't using it. I've sent rescued lambs there ever since."

He made it seem so unimportant.

"Your good works must cost you a fortune."

"You say that as though you find me generous. If you'll not consider me a braggart, I'll confess that I'm in possession of a fortune, a very nice fortune. What I give is nothing. The truly generous man is the one who gives away his last ha'penny when he can ill afford to do so."

Or one who gives away the last of his soul, she thought desolately, when it's all that remains to him. Was she asking too much?

When they arrived at Catherine's residence, the coach came to a halt in the alleyway. Claybourne didn't stop at the gate, but escorted her all the way to the servants' entrance, his hand st.u.r.dy beneath her elbow as though she needed the support. Perhaps she did. Sometimes she felt like she was floating, that everything was at a great distance-and then suddenly it would be before her.

"Will you be all right?" he asked.

She nodded. "I'll see you at midnight tonight. Or is it tomorrow? I'm never quite sure how to refer to the upcoming night when dawn has not yet taken this one away."

Cradling her chin, he rubbed his thumb over her lips. It was so dark and foggy that she couldn't determine what he was thinking.

"Do you think you'll be up to teaching Frannie?" he asked.

His question surprised her. She'd expected something a bit more intimate after all they'd shared tonight.

"Yes." She sounded breathless. It irritated her that he had such power over her.

"Good. Tonight then."

He quickly disappeared into the fog, like a phantom. Opening the door, she slipped inside, then pressed her back to the wood. She'd not expected to like Claybourne. She'd wanted only to use him, then forget him.

But she knew now that no matter what the outcome of their arrangement, she would never forget him. Never.

Luke listened to the sounds of the city coming to life as his coach traveled toward its destination. He'd always enjoyed the hustle and bustle of London, but particularly in the early hours of the morning. As a lad, he'd always felt that it offered the promise of opportunity: pockets to be picked, food to be stolen, tricks to be played on the unsuspecting. And always there was Frannie.

From the first night that Jack had taken him to Feagan's, the first night when he had spotted the little girl sitting by the fire, the first night when she had crawled onto the mound of blankets, tucked her small hand in his, and told him not to be afraid, he had loved her.

He remembered nothing of his life before Jack found him. Marcus Langdon and his attempt to claim the t.i.tle had Luke trying to remember what he could of his past. But there was nothing there. All his memories were of the streets.

Perhaps he should return to them, return to them with Frannie. Let Langdon have the t.i.tle. Luke certainly didn't need the income. Because of his partnership with Jack, he was a man of wealth in his own right. But he couldn't quite bring himself to give up the t.i.tle that the old gent had a.s.sured him belonged to him. He'd grown to care for the old gent, in his own way, and a part of him thought it would be a betrayal to the one who had saved him from the gallows and looked after him so well.

The coach came to a halt in front of a house that Luke seldom visited. He stepped out onto the cobblestone drive and strode up the steps. He didn't knock or wait for admittance, but simply opened the door and went inside.

A maid, dusting the banister on the nearby stairs, released a tiny screech, then recognizing who he was, curtsied.

"Where are they?" he asked.

"In the breakfast dining room, my lord."

That surprised him. He'd expected to find them still abed, had relished the notion of rousing them from slumber. But perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised. A guilty conscience made it difficult to sleep late, made it difficult to sleep at all. Without hesitation, he made his way through the residence. He wore neither hat nor gloves, because he'd not thought the formality was required when taking Catherine home. It was only on his way back to his residence that he'd changed his mind and decided to stop by here first. His clothes were unkempt, but then he'd never been interested in impressing them.

He strode into the breakfast dining room as though he owned it. His determined footsteps no doubt alerted the occupants to his arrival. Sc.r.a.ping back his chair, Marcus Langdon came to his feet with such swiftness that he nearly lost his balance. His mother gasped, her fleshy face quivering as she struggled to rise.

"You have no right to be here, sir!" she exclaimed, spittle flying over her plate, a plate heaped with enough food to feed a family of four.

"On the contrary, madam, I pay the lease on the residence." He walked to the sideboard, took a plate, and began selecting items of interest. They certainly didn't skimp when it came to their palate. "I daresay I purchased the goods that provided this lovely breakfast as well as the servants who prepared it." He raised an eyebrow at the footman standing nearby. "See that I have some coffee."

"Yes, my lord." He immediately headed for the doorway that would lead to the kitchen.

Luke carried his plate to the table, took the chair opposite Langdon's mother-he had no doubt she was the more dangerous of the two-and smiled as though all was right with the world. "Please, don't let me interrupt your meal."

Langdon sat down cautiously, his mother less graciously.

"Good G.o.d, is that blood on your shirt?" Langdon asked.