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That rhythmic pounding at the door broke through his thoughts of her, and that usually unwanted intrusion proved a welcome diversion. Grabbing a towel, he wiped it over his face. “What is it?” he called, the white linen muffling his voice.

Giles entered, his sack looped over his arm. “North.”

Treating those close to you as though they are somehow less ... That is a sad way to go through life, Mr. North ...

“It has nothing to do with that,” he snapped.

Giles puzzled his brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” Malcom grumbled. How dare she call out the method by which he dealt with his associates. “Giles.” He issued that belated greeting. Malcom looked to the clock. Ten past nine o’clock. The other man’s evening work should be beginning.

“Agreetingand not a ‘What the hell are you doing here’? I say, you’re more cheerful than usual,” Giles drawled. “Though I can certainly venture why ...”

“I’d hardly say I’m cheerful,” he muttered. The only cheer he’d allowed himself had been involuntary, and that amusement had been unwitting, a product of the mouthy minx who’d not hesitated to go toe-to-toe with him. In fact, he’d not even known he could enjoy himself in that way—or in any way.

“And you haven’t tossed me out on my arse. I’d say that is as cheerful as I recall you in”—he perched himself on the arm of the carved, dark-walnut lounge chair—“ever.” He let his bag fall with a thump. “I trust this has something to do with a certain ... lady?”

By God, were his damned cheeks turning red? Theyfelthot. Only he didn’t blush or give in to any other shows of emotion. “You’d be”—right—“wrong,” he said, toweling the moisture from his arms, and then dropping the cloth. Giving his back to Giles, Malcom proceeded to the washbasin and pitcher and splashed his face. “If this is why you’re interrupting me, you’re in need of more work.” He brushed the water from his eyes, and when he opened them, he caught the entirely too amused expression reflected back in the bevel mirror affixed to the stand.

“Oh, come, not even the dark-haired, smallish young woman?”

Malcom dunked his face once more in a bid to dull the heat. Damned Giles and his probing.

Giles sighed. “You suck the pleasure out of everything, including a good ribbing.”

“Aye.” The other man spoke an absolute truth. “Is there a problem with your assignment for the evening?”

Other toshers complained over the tunnel assignments; Giles had only ever accepted the weekly maps he’d been given and never questioned those orders. It was, in short, the reason Malcom had the relationship he did with him.

“I merely felt, given the news, that it required a visit to congratulate you.”

The news? That gave Malcom pause, and carefully reaching for a dry cloth, he blotted his face. “Congratulate me on what?”

The other man blinked slowly. “Why ... about yournews.”

Warning bells jingled in his mind. “What. News?” When the other man was too slow to answer, he growled, “I asked,what news?”

Giles jumped, and then muttering to himself, he leaned down, fished around in his bag, and drew out a stack of papers. Malcom was already crossing the room. “Here.” He tossed the newspapers.

Malcom caught them to his chest.

“Front page. Of every newspaper.”

He’d been on the damned front pages of every last gossip column for the first months of the discovery of his existence. When he’d eluded all their damned reporters, he’d been relegated to the safer middle and back pages.

Malcom’s gaze collided with the headline across the front.

A UNION MADE IN ... THE DIALS

All of London is abuzz with talk of the Earl of Maxwell’s recent and unexpected marriage. The lady herself, as much a mystery as her husband, is known by Lady Verity, and was recently seen exiting the Grosvenor Square residence. Her past is as cloaked in secrets, with the exception of her romantic meeting and then whirlwind—

Courtship?

“Keep reading.”

He glanced over the top of the paper.

Giles gave a nudge, urging him to finish, confirming Malcom had spoken aloud.