The Gentleman Thief. Deborah Simmons

as Whalsey and Cheever with ease, Georgiana decided. “Perhaps you can be of help to me,” she whispered as she stared out into the night.

      “Yes?” The word was little more than an exhalation, yet it managed to harry her senses in ways she had never thought possible.

      Annoyed, Georgiana forced herself to concentrate. “You see, I know the identity of the thieves, but I fear they will escape Bath unless something is done to stop them.”

      “Ah. And what do you suggest?” Ashdowne said. No laughter. No taunts. There wasn’t even a hint of contempt in his manner, and Georgiana knew a swift sense of relief. Perhaps this assistant business was all to the good, for just sharing her thoughts with another seemed to put her more at ease.

      “Well, I’m not entirely certain,” Georgiana admitted. “You see, I don’t really have enough evidence to tender to the magistrate, who probably would not deign to listen anyway.” She paused to consider the injustice of it all before mentioning her only other option. “I’m afraid there is nothing for it but to confront one of the culprits.”

      “Miss Bellewether,” Ashdowne said. His intense tone demanded her attention, so Georgiana glanced upward, only to shiver at the way his eyes glittered in the moonlight. “You will not confront a criminal.”

      Frowning at what sounded an awful lot like an order, Georgiana nonetheless chose not to argue, for she fully intended to use his objection as a means to her end. “Well, that’s where you could…step in, as it were,” she said.

      “You want me to confront the fellow?” Ashdowne lifted one dark brow in speculation.

      “Well, that, uh, would be a good job for an assistant, don’t you think?” she asked, smiling tentatively. “And I would be there to do all the talking. I have little doubt that I can wrangle a confession from them, or one of them, at least, because when I spoke to him in the Pump Room, he became quite agitated in a most telling fashion.”

      Ashdowne’s lovely lips thinned. “Are you telling me that some brute knocked you down this morning?”

      “Well, in a manner of speaking—”

      He muttered something she could not quite discern. “You are lucky the fellow did not do more! You cannot go around accosting lawbreakers. You have no idea what that sort of man is capable of, but I’ve seen some in London who would slit your throat for a shilling!”

      “Oh, I realize what you are saying, and I heartily agree,” Georgiana replied. “You see, I make it my business to follow the London newspapers quite thoroughly, especially the criminal exploits and the heroic actions of the Bow Street Runners. However, I must assure you that this fellow is not a common cutpurse.”

      Ashdowne did not appear mollified. Rather, he seemed to be in quite a taking, his handsome face hard and his mouth grim. To Georgiana’s surprise, he reached for her, and she sucked in a strangled breath as his gloved hands closed over her bare arms. The heat that they generated was alarming, as was the abrupt metamorphosis of her companion. Right before her eyes the Marquis of Ashdowne had changed from smooth and charming to threateningly feral, and Georgiana blinked in amazement.

      Held by his hands and his glittering gaze, Georgiana felt caught between dread and titillation, between the heat of his touch and the cold of the shiver that ran up her spine. “Miss Bellewether, you will not confront anyone, no matter how harmless you believe them to be,” he said.

      “Well, I—” Georgiana opened her mouth to protest. She had not even formally agreed to take him on as her assistant, yet the arrogant man was trying to tell her what to do. This was not at all what she had imagined, but then Ashdowne was always doing the unexpected. And this moment proved no different, for as Georgiana watched with widening eyes, his head dipped, his features blurred and he kissed her.

      Georgiana had been kissed before, of course, but those country lads and military gallants had never aroused in her any enthusiasm for the intimacy. She had always thought it rather distasteful to have someone place his mouth on her own. Until now.

      Quite simply, Ashdowne put those other lads to shame. He played upon her lips like a master, his first touch a mere brush, a featherlight caress that left her aching for more. And instead of giving it to her, he grazed the line of her jaw, her cheek, her eyelids and her forehead, where a curl had fallen. Then he pressed against the errant lock, with a deliberate caress that hinted of delights untold.

      “You are quite a sumptuous feast, are you not?” Ashdowne whispered against her hair, and then, to her infinite relief, his lips returned to hers, enticing and molding them until Georgiana heard a low moan that shocked her as her own. She lifted her hands to Ashdowne’s embroidered silk waistcoat, drawing in a giddy breath at the heat that emanated from his muscular form. He was so warm and solid and sleek that Georgiana couldn’t help running her palms around to his back, beneath his coat.

      As if her explorations encouraged him, Ashdowne touched her with his tongue, and she gasped in surprise only to feel him enter her mouth in a smooth invasion that seemed to affect her entire body in the most peculiar ways. Curious…that something so odd could be so delicious, Georgiana thought, for Ashdowne tasted better than anything. Although a devotee of desserts, Georgiana could liken him to none she had ever had before, his flavor a dark, rich embodiment of…passion?

      The thought made its way through her dazed senses, and she realized she should not be clutching the marquis’s person in such a manner. She should not let one of his elegant hands clasp the back of her neck while her head fell back, her mouth opening under his. She should not push so close to him that her breasts were smashed against his elegant waistcoat. And, most of all, she should not be moaning wantonly at the extraordinary bliss to be found in his arms.

      Vaguely Georgiana heard the sound of footsteps, followed by the frustrating vacation of Ashdowne’s lips. “Whom do you suspect?” he whispered against her ear, and it took her fogged brain a full minute to comprehend his question. During that time, he stepped away, and Georgiana’s arms fell to her sides, empty and anchorless.

      “Suspect?” she asked, her voice a breathless squeak. “Oh, uh, Lord Whalsey and Mr. Cheever.”

      “Ah,” he said softly, already moving into the shadows. “I’ll have Whalsey’s house watched.”

      Georgiana blinked, seized by a disappointment so acute that she was tempted to call him back or throw herself against his wonderful, tall body, and beg for more, but he was backing away silently.

      “Miss Bellewether!” The sound of a voice made Georgiana whirl guiltily, and she flinched at the sight of Mr. Hawkins, the displaced vicar, approaching. “I can see it is a good thing that I came outside, for you should not be here alone,” he said, his eyes traveling to her bosom, and Georgiana was grateful for the darkness. She was certain that every inch of her skin was flushed right down to her toes.

      “Oh. I was, uh, just going in,” she managed to reply.

      Mr. Hawkins looked disgruntled but offered to escort her, and she took his arm, though it was a poor replacement for Ashdowne’s. Trying to marshal her muddled thoughts, Georgiana blinked as they stepped into the reception room, automatically scanning the assemblage. Immediately she noted the presence of Lady Culpepper, who was deep in conversation with a black-haired gentleman.

      “I see that she has recovered from her grief,” Mr. Hawkins said, with a frown in Lady Culpepper’s direction.

      It was an odd comment for a vicar, and Georgiana felt her wits return with the realization. “Perhaps the gentleman is extending comfort to her,” she said.

      Mr. Hawkins’s only response was an unchurchmanlike snort.

      “Who is he?” Georgiana asked, eyeing the fellow with interest now. He was tall and handsome and dressed in an elegant but understated way.

      “Only one of the richest and most arrogant men in the country,” Mr. Hawkins said in a derisive voice. “He’s related to half the peerage, but has more money than nearly all of them.”

      “Oh,