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And Malcom was the only one to pay the price.

“Though, I will say of all the women paraded before you, the golden-haired beauty is by far my top contender for the role of countess.”

“Fuck off.” Malcom stuck up his spare middle finger for emphasis, earning nothing more than a round of boisterous laughter for it. Abandoning his attempts at work, he tossed down his pencil and rubbed the stiff muscles along the back of his neck. “If you are unable to focus on our business together, you know I can simply replace you. There are a hundred other toshers who’d happily take your place.”

“I do know as much.” Giles widened his grin. “I also know that you won’t. For all your annoyance and talk of sole focus upon the business, you rather like me.”

“I don’t like anyone,” he muttered. “I tolerate you.” His associate, through the years, had preferred his secrets like most in the rookeries. He’d kept his life a mystery ... a luxury Malcom had enjoyed until the bloody minx had stolen that coveted gift in these streets. A hot wave of fury whipped through him, as potent as the day Fowler had approached, gaze averted, head down, and dropped that damnable paper on his desk.

The one that had unhinged Malcom’s world.

Giles gave a tug at his lapels. “It certainly helps that the only one as capable in these sewers is me.”

Malcom grunted. “As close to capable.”

“I’ll take that as praise.”

“It wasn’t praise, either. I’m merely stating fact,” he said bluntly. “We’re associates because of what you contribute.” In fact, he tolerated more than he should where Giles was concerned. Theirs, however, was a mutually beneficial relationship, and it would be foolish for anyone to mistake the work they did with Malcom as kindness in any form.

“Ah, as we are speaking with blunt honesty, shall we discuss the tall, blonde-haired beaut—”

“No,” he said before the other man could even finish. Malcom set to work, dividing his paper into columns and assigning those underlings who served their work for that week. At last Giles fell silent so Malcom could finish divvying up the operations for the upcoming week.

The silence was short-lived.

Giles plucked the curtain back, and peered out. “Another’s arrived.”

Oh, bloody hell.

“Not your usual taste, either. Dark. Small.”

There’d been one young woman who’d been both dark and small, and who’d bewitched him. Malcom had learned his lesson, however. “She could be Athena, and I wouldn’t give a damn,” he muttered.

“Well, she’s not. Athena, that is,” Giles clarified, as though it mattered which hopeful lady or woman in search of a fortune sauntered up to his doorway. “Short. Almost childlike in size but not ...”

Again, Verity Lovelace slipped into his thoughts. And he forcibly thrust back the unwanted memories of the shrew, just as he’d fought them each time: as she’d been that day, alternating between breathtaking courage and fear. With more displays of the former. And then there’d been her kiss.

He swallowed a sound of disgust.Get ahold of yourself ...“Childlike... you say?”

“But clearly not a child.” Giles pressed his forehead against the glass and peered out. “She’s still rounded in the right places.”

Lusting after the woman who’d ruined his existence was a new and entirely unfamiliar low. That reminder was sufficient enough to kill all thoughts of Verity Lovelace.

“I will say this one is a bit severe. More so than any of the other wide-eyed innocents to come your way.”

“I don’t need a damned cataloging,” he said tersely.

“Come, you catalog everything. Even those things you’ve had taken from the Maxwell earl before you.” Giles prattled on anyway. “With the way the lady’s drawn her hair back, she must be giving herself a deuced headache.”

Malcom continued writing. His pencil flew over the page.

“That is ... odd, though.”

Unlike prior attempts at riling him, the genuine stupefaction stilled Malcom’s hand. “What is it?” After all, the only thing more perilous than incongruities were incongruities that went ignored.

“There’s no doting papa. No protective maid. This one has come alone.”

Alone ...