On the days that Ross served as sitting magistrate, Sophia brought his lunch plate to the office after early court sessions were finished. While he ate at his desk, she would straighten his papers and dust his shelves and carry reports to the criminal records room. However, he was not one to take regular meals, often regarding food as an unwelcome interruption to his work.
The first time that Ross had refused lunch, informing Sophia that he was too busy to eat, she had offered the plate to Vickery, who was copying a runner’s report.
“Vickery is busy also,” Ross said shortly. “You may take the plate away.”
“Yes, sir,” Sophia replied, seeming not at all perturbed. “Perhaps later—”
“I am a bit hungry,” the clerk interrupted, staring at the covered plate with stark longing. A stocky man with a hearty appetite, Vickery did not like to miss a meal. “That smells delicious, Miss Sydney… may I ask what it is?”
“Marjoram sausage and potatoes. And green peas in cream.”
Ross’s appetite kindled at the savory fragrance that wafted from the plate. Lately Sophia had taken a strong hand in the kitchen, showing the inept cook-maid how to prepare edible meals. She paid close attention to his likes and dislikes, observing that he preferred well-seasoned food and had an incurable sweet tooth. In the past several days Ross had succumbed to the temptation of crisp-crusted charlotte pudding mounded high with orange filling… plum cake rich with molasses and currants… sugared apples wedged between thick layers of dough. Not surprisingly, he had begun to put on weight. The hollows of his cheeks had filled out, and his clothes no longer hung in loose folds—all of which would doubtless please his mother, who had often worried over his leanness.
Vickery closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Green peas in cream… my mother used to make them that way. Tell me, Miss Sydney, did you add a pinch of nutmeg as she did?”
“Why, yes—” Sophia began.
“Give him the tray,” Ross growled. “It’s obvious that I won’t have a moment’s peace otherwise.”
Sophia sent him a vaguely apologetic smile as she obeyed.
Vickery accepted the lunch tray and unfolded the cloth napkin with obvious delight. Beaming, he called after her when she left, “Thank you, Miss Sydney!”
While Ross signed warrants, he was irritably aware of Vickery’s lip-smacking and moans of enjoyment as he devoured the lunch. “Do you have to make so much noise?” Ross finally asked, looking up from his desk with a scowl.
Vickery stuffed his mouth with another large spoonful of peas. “Forgive me, sir. But this is a meal fit for a king. The next time you wish to forgo your lunch, sir, I will gladly take it in your stead.”
There would not be a next time, Ross had vowed silently, annoyed beyond bearing to see someone else enjoying his meal. From then on, lunch in his office became a sacred ritual, and no one dared to interfere.
Sophia’s influence soon extended to more personal details of his life. She made certain that the ewer of water for his morning shave was always steaming hot, and she added glycerine to his shaving soap to soften his obstinate beard. Observing that his boots and shoes needed attention, she mixed her own recipe for blacking and frequently nagged Ernest to keep Ross’s footwear polished.
One morning, having discovered that most of his cravats had disappeared from the top drawer of his gentleman’s chest, Ross went to the kitchen in his shirtsleeves. He found Sophia at the table, making notes in a little stitched-together book. Noticing that he was not wearing his coat or waistcoat, she gave him a swift but thorough glance that went from head to toe. At this sign of discreet feminine interest, Ross suddenly had trouble remembering why he had come downstairs in the first place.
“Miss Sydney—” he began gruffly.
“Your cravats,” she said with a snap of her slender fingers, evidently recalling that she had removed them from his chest. “I washed and pressed them yesterday, but I forgot to have them returned to your room. I will send Lucie up with them shortly.”
“Thank you,” Ross said, distracted by a silky lock of golden hair that had slid loose from her topknot. He was almost overcome by the temptation to reach out and wind the soft strands around his finger.
“Before you return to your room, sir, you should be aware that some of your cravats are gone.”
“Gone?” he repeated with an inquiring frown.
“I sold them to the ragman.” An impudent smile danced on her lips as she continued, silently daring him to protest. “Several of them were frayed and worn. A man in your position couldn’t possibly be seen in them. So you will have to purchase new ones.”
“I see.” Thoroughly engaged by her impertinence, Ross leaned over her and placed one hand on the top of the chair where she sat. Although he did not touch her, she was completely trapped. “Well, Miss Sydney, since you have taken it upon yourself to dispose of my cravats, I think you should be the one to replace them. Ernest will accompany you to Bond Street this afternoon, and you can purchase the new ones on my credit. I will leave the selection to your taste.”
Her head tilted back so she could meet his gaze, and her eyes sparkled with anticipation at the thought of a shopping expedition. “With pleasure, sir.”
As Ross stared into Sophia’s upturned face, he was greatly puzzled. It had been a long time since anyone had paid such close attention to such trivial matters as his cravats and the temperature of his shaving water. But part of him relished it… the almost wifely attentiveness on which he was becoming far too dependent. As with all things he did not understand, Ross examined Sophia’s possible motives. He could not come up with a single reason that she would wish to pamper him.
Sophia’s thick lashes lowered as she glanced once more to where his shirt revealed his bare throat. Her breath quickened slightly, betraying her awareness of him. He thought of sliding his hand behind her neck, holding her steady as he bent to capture her mouth. But it had been a long time since he had made such an advance to a woman, and he was not completely certain that she would welcome his attentions.
“Miss Sydney,” he murmured, staring into the soft sapphire depths of her eyes, “the next time you dispose of my clothing, you had better give me advance warning.” A roguish smile tugged at his lips as he leaned a fraction closer and added, “I would hate to come down here without my trousers.”
To Ross’s chagrin, he was not the only man at Bow Street to appreciate Sophia’s considerable charms. As Morgan had predicted, the runners were after her like a pack of frolicsome wolves, sniffing and nipping at her heels. Before reporting to him at nine each morning, they would wait at the kitchen door for leftover scraps from breakfast. They would tease and flirt with her, and spin exaggerated tales of their own accomplishments.
Discovering that Sophia was willing to treat minor wounds, the men began to invent aches and pains that required her attention. After learning that she had bound at least three hairy sprained ankles and administered two poultices and wrapped a sore throat in the course of a single week, Ross lost his temper.
“You tell the runners,” he snapped at Vickery, “that if they are becoming so damned clumsy and sickly of late, they can see a bloody sawbones! I am forbidding Miss Sydney to treat any more injuries, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Vickery stared at him with obvious amazement. “I’ve never seen you in a temper before, Sir Ross.”
“I’m not in a temper!”
“You are shouting and cursing,” Vickery pointed out reasonably. “If that isn’t a temper, what is?”
Ross struggled to emerge from the red haze that had surrounded him. With great effort, he modulated his tone. “I raised my voice merely for the purpose of being emphatic,” he said through his teeth. “My point is, the runners are not going to fake injuries and illness as an excuse to have Miss Sydney doctor them. She has enough responsibility as it is—I won’t have her plagued by the pack of rutting idiots who work for me.”
“Yes, sir,” Vickery replied, averting his face, but not before Ross saw the twitch of a perceptive smile at his lips.
As word of Bow Street’s pretty new employee spread among the patrols, Sophia was besieged by eager constables. She treated them all with the same friendly politeness. Ross sensed that she was guarding herself and her heart very carefully. After the wretched way she had been treated by her lover, any man would have an uphill battle to gain her trust.
Ross was increasingly curious about the man who had betrayed Sophia—what he had looked like, and what it was about him that had attracted her. Unable to help himself, Ross finally asked Eliza if Sophia had confided anything about her erstwhile lover. It was Sophia’s day off, and she had taken Ernest on an outing to Bond Street. Bow Street seemed strangely empty without her, and though the day was only half over, Ross found himself watching the clock impatiently.
A knowing smile crossed the cook-maid’s face at his question.
“If Sophia did say anything about him, Sir Ross, it was told in confidence. Besides, you lectured me just last month about my gossiping ways, and now I’ve made a pledge to reform myself.”
Ross gave her a hard, level stare. “Eliza, why is it that now, when I’m finally interested in something you have to gossip about, you’ve decided to reform?”
She laughed, her crooked teeth displayed like a basket of gaming chips. “I’ll tell you what she has said about him—if you will tell me why you want to know.”
Ross kept his face expressionless. “I was merely asking out of a polite concern for her well-being.”
Eliza snorted with skeptical amusement. “I’ll tell you, sir, but you mustn’t let on, or Miss Sophia will have me done to a turn. His name was Anthony. She said he was young and handsome, with fair hair. She likes fair-haired men, you see.”
Ross received the information with a slight frown. Goon.
“They met while Miss Sophia was out on a walk and he was riding through the woods. He charmed her… quoting poetry and such.”
Ross grunted in displeasure. The image of Sophia in another man’s arms—a fair-haired, poetry-quoting one—chafed like new leather against a blister. “Unfortunately, he forgot to mention that he had a wife.”
“Yes. The coward simply left her after he’d taken his pleasure—he never bothered to tell her about his wife. Miss Sophia says she will never love again.”
“She’ll marry someday,” Ross replied cynically. “It is only a matter of time.”
“Yes, Miss Sophia will probably marry,” Eliza said pragmatically. “What I said was, she will never love again.”
He shrugged casually. “If one is to marry, it is best to do it for reasons other than love.”
“That is exactly what Miss Sophia says.” Eliza took her leave, pausing at the door to add with a bit too much sincerity, “How sensible you both are!” She departed with a chuckle while Ross scowled after her.
After a fortnight of diligent work, the runners Sayer and Gee finally managed to locate Nick Gentry, the popular figure of the London underworld. Every parlor and tavern was instantly ablaze with the news that he had been taken to Bow Street and held for questioning. The minute that Gentry was brought to the premises, he was imprisoned in the strong room, an area that Sophia had never been allowed to see. Naturally her curiosity about the forbidden cellar-level room was rampant, but Sir Ross had ordered her to stay away from it.
As word of Nick Gentry’s detainment spread through the slums and rookeries of London, a large crowd gathered outside Bow Street No. 3, blocking the entire thoroughfare so that no vehicles could pass. Gentry’s influence permeated every corner of the city. Although he called himself a thief-taker, he had in reality done much to organize crime in London. He directed gangs in their illegal activities, telling them how and when to commit crimes they might not have attempted without his guidance. Pickpockets, burglars, whores, and murderers all reported to him, receiving his assistance in matters ranging from disposing of stolen goods to helping felons avoid arrest.
Sophia had hoped for a glimpse of the notorious criminal, but he had been brought to Bow Street under cover of night. Sir Ross had been with him in the strong room every minute, settling in for a long period of questioning. “Sir Ross can only old Gentry for three days,” Ernest informed Sophia breathlessly.“ ‘E’ll try his hardest to make Gentry admit to helping those men escape Newgate, but Gentry will never crack.”
“You sound as if you admire Mr. Gentry,” Sophia remarked.
The boy considered the question thoughtfully, blushing under her attention. “Well… Nick Gentry is not all bad. ‘E does ’elp people sometimes… gives them jobs and money…”
“What kind of jobs?” Sophia asked dryly. “Surely not legitimate ones.”
Ernest shrugged uncomfortably. “And he does arrest thieves and highwaymen, just as the runners do.”
“From what Sir Ross says,” Sophia murmured, “Mr. Gentry encourages people to commit crimes, and then he arrests them for it. Rather like creating criminals for his own profit, isn’t it?”
Ernest shot her a defensive glance, then smiled. “Oh, Gentry ‘as ’is faults, Miss Sydney, but ‘e’s a rum one, jus’ the same. I can’t explain in a way ye would understand.”
Sophia did understand, however. Sometimes a man proved to be so charismatic that the public was willing to overlook his sins. It seemed that Nick Gentry had captured the imaginations of aristocrat, merchant, and pickpocket alike… everyone in London was fascinated by him. His rivalry with Sir Ross only made him that much more intriguing.
Sir Ross did not come up from the strong room for the entire day, only sent Ernest back and forth with requests for water, or for a particular file from the criminal records room. Sayer and Gee, the two runners who had apprehended Gentry, also remained present for the questioning, although they sometimes emerged for a few moments of respite and fresh air.
Consumed by curiosity, Sophia approached Eddie Sayer as he stood outside in the stone-flagged courtyard behind Bow Street No. 4. The calls and cries from the crowd in front of the building were annoyingly persistent in demanding the release of Nick Gentry. Sophia was grateful for the iron fence that kept the protesters away from the buildings, but she feared that soon someone might decide to scale the partition.
Sayer had lifted his broad face to the cool spring breeze and was breathing deeply. Although the wind was tainted with the familiar scents of the London streets, manure and coal dust being prevalent, it seemed preferable to the atmosphere of the strong room. Hearing Sophia’s footsteps on the stone, Sayer turned and grinned, his brown eyes twinkling. He was a large, dashing young man who flirted with every woman he encountered, no matter her age, appearance, or marital status.