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P iers was whistling to himself as he joined Roland Chetwynd in their hired hackney carriage. Thanks to the young man beside him, it looked as if his dream was about to be fulfilled; Charlotte Lavoisier had returned to London, and she had Oliver with her.

He’d waited an eternity to be able to convince her that they needed to be together and that he must adopt the boy and make him his heir.

He’d never understood why Charlotte had hidden herself away when she knew she was pregnant.

Why would she not want to wed a businessman whose enterprises were on the verge of being enormously successful? She’d be set up for life.

Instead, she’d vanished—and he’d worried himself sick for months until he’d received that memorable letter from an attorney acting on Charlotte’s behalf.

A regular payment was required for the upkeep of Piers’s bastard child but aside from that, he was to have no involvement in the boy’s life.

The purpose of this condition was not disclosed.

Nor were Charlotte’s reasons for never wanting to see Piers again.

Had he really been that dreadful a partner, that terrible a lover, that the mother of his child wanted nothing further to do with him?

It had taken too long to recover from his wounds and regain his self-confidence.

He’d fought against the pain of her betrayal by surrounding himself with some of the most stunning ladies in London, and cultivated the reputation of being a rake.

Perhaps it was Charlotte’s abominable treatment that had driven him to ensure that both his businesses would succeed, to prove that he was a better man than she believed him to be.

He shook the uncomfortable recollections away and returned his attention to Chetwynd. “You have the makings of an impressive sleuth. Whatever the outcome of this meeting, I’ll be sure to put in a good word with Mrs. Dove-Lyon for you.”

“Your young friend, Tom Haggar, might have accomplished it just as well without me, had he only been able to read. A good trawl of the newspapers and some old theater programs was what was needed to discover Miss Lavoisier’s various aliases.

It was, admittedly, harder to discover what troupe she was with since she’s switched companies more than once, but a few nights spent chatting to stagecoach drivers over their ale helped me determine the circuits of various troupes of players.

That’s something where one cannot expect young Tom to succeed. ”

Piers sighed. “Yes—Tom’s inability to read is something I ought to address, isn’t it? He’s extremely quick-witted and there’s much he could learn, given the opportunity.”

“I understand from Belinda that she made some attempt to get him into the orphanage at Forty Court. He wouldn’t have been there long, of course, because they try to apprentice the children as soon as possible.

But I understand he refused the offer. As far as she could gauge, it was from loyalty to you. ”

“Loyalty to me? That is a valuable thing indeed.” He smiled. “If this meeting goes according to plan, and I can convince Charlotte to marry me, then I shan’t need Tom’s services any longer. I’ll see if I can persuade him to accept Miss Bellamy’s kind offer.”

He gazed out the window at the dark London streets, his smile fading. Why did the thought of Miss Bellamy cloud the anticipated joy of the evening? Was he just the tiniest bit disappointed that he’d have no excuse to seek her company from now on?

He pushed the feeling aside. Their last meeting had been acrimonious, to say the least. They held different opinions and he’d been intolerably rude. There was little likelihood of amending their quarrel.

“Did you use your young street urchin on any other investigations?”

“No. He tried to pick my pocket once, and it was my way of trying to get him used to earning an honest shilling—with limited success. One cannot, alas, save all the street children in London, no matter how much one would wish to. But he appeared to be a likely lad, and he loves lurking outside theaters—usually with nefarious intent—and knows just about anybody and everybody involved in acting.”

Piers paused to glance out the window once more, eager to arrive at their destination, but the handsome townhouses had not yet given way to the rookeries of St. Giles.

“You’d think Tom could afford to buy himself some decent clothes, but every time I suggest it, he says he wouldn’t belong if he were dressed differently, and everybody would notice him when he wanted to be invisible.”

“An interesting and many-faceted character, that young Tom Haggar.”

“Indeed. Not only does he enjoy the theater, but being a boy, I thought he might have the opportunity to speak to my son, gain his trust, and even put in a good word for me. But whether he’d be a good influence or not is another matter.”

“Bright, but imprudent?”

Piers nodded. “He can do his arithmetic—certainly when it comes to money. And I’m sure he would quickly pick up reading if someone were prepared to put in the time with him.”

“Belinda is marvelous at teaching children to read—Miss Brent has often said so. Apparently, she has the patience of a saint.”

“Another interesting character with many facets,” Piers replied, his mouth twitching.

“Don’t I know it! She was such a trouble to Araminta—but that is not my story to tell.

To be honest, I shall be glad when Belinda settles back into life at Forty Court.

She has led me a merry dance the last few weeks.

I know, I know—part of it was my fault for taking her into the Lyon’s Den in the first place. I’ve learned my lesson.”

There were fewer lighted lamps visible now, and Piers stared out at the houses that lined the increasingly narrow street. “We must be coming into St. Giles. I’m surprised to find it still bustling.”

“Yes, but it’s mostly foot traffic and barrows. Except for us, I don’t think there are many respectable people about.”

“Much of London’s most lucrative business is conducted after sunset, and not all of it above board. I know that well enough, from my experience of the streets near the theater.”

“It must have been so frustrating for you, Darvill, not being able to contact Miss Lavoisier. I know I’d have been furious had it been me. Did you love her very much?”

“An impertinent question, Mr. Chetwynd!”

And one that Piers didn’t care to answer.

He’d had a passion for Charlotte, yes, and she’d been eager enough to take him to her bed.

As so many young men in his position had done before him, he’d expected to set her up as his mistress, since marrying actresses was heavily frowned upon.

But then she’d run off and given birth to baby Oliver before sending him that lawyer’s letter.

Why hadn’t she given him the chance to welcome her back and do the decent thing?

He would have, no matter what the opinion of the ton.

She’d been so beautiful, his heart had skipped a beat each time he looked at her.

Her blonde hair, cascading to her waist like a golden waterfall, had swirled about her when they made love, and he thought of her as an Arthurian damsel of old, like Guinevere.

Their relationship had been magical, and he’d been certain she cared for him, although Maman, who didn’t approve of her at all, was constantly reminding him she was an actress.

Had that precious taste of heaven been a sham?

Piers sighed at the memory, then pictured another beautiful lady with guinea-gold hair. This lady had curls a man could wrap around his finger, and kiss with great devotion. He could fill his hands with those curls, dig deep, drawing that charming face close enough to capture those rosy lips.

“We’re stopping—this must be it. Shall I tell the driver to wait?”

Thank goodness they’d arrived—Piers’s thoughts had been heading down a dangerous path.

He shook his head. “He’ll want to keep the horses moving.

We’ll hail another carriage once our business is done—I don’t want to rush it, as I have no idea what’s going to happen.

” He couldn’t guess what Charlotte’s response would be when she met him after all this time.

Would she fall on his neck, thrilled to see him again?

Or would she be furious that he’d broken their agreement and sought her out?

A moment later, he was standing in front of the Garrett Street dwelling.

The house was unexpectedly good for the area, double-fronted, with two floors and a small front garden, separated from the grimy pavement by a set of railings.

Well, at least Charlotte was spending his money on giving herself and Oliver a decent life, rather than drinking it away like some actresses he’d encountered.

The house would be rented, of course, but soon, she wouldn’t have to worry about accommodation, managing her money, or even working at all. They’d be together as a family.

As their carriage disappeared round the corner, Chetwynd pushed open the gate.

“Wait!” Piers kept his voice low. “I want to be sure this is the right place.” He would hate to burst in on a stranger at this time of night.

As he stole up to the nearest window, where the curtains had not been fully closed, his whole body was trembling.

So much rested on this being the right place, the occupants being the right people, and him choosing the right words to convince a woman who’d evaded him for over six years to accept him as her husband.

The house was depressingly dark. He looked up, but none of the upstairs windows showed a light, either. His heart was in his throat—what if the birds had already flown? Could someone have connected Roland’s questioning to him and warned Charlotte?

In a panic, he hammered at the door.

There was no response.

“Don’t batter the door down, Darvill! She’ll think you’re the bailiffs or the Watch. Everybody in St. Giles will come out, hoping for a spectacle.”

Piers took no notice. He rattled at the window and even tried it to see if it would open, then put his mouth close to the glass and shouted, “Charlotte! It’s me, Piers. Let me in.”

Nothing happened, so he went back to the front door and knocked again.

“Calm down!” Roland grasped him by the sleeve. “We can come back tomorrow.”

Something clenched in Piers’s gut. A sick feeling of foreboding gripped him as he replied, “Tomorrow may be too late.”

Then, to his surprise, he heard bolts clicking back and a key turning in the lock. He stepped back from the door, his heart in his mouth.

It opened to reveal, not Charlotte Lavoisier, but Miss Belinda Bellamy, tilting her chin at him defiantly, her cheeks pink.

“Good evening, Roland. Good evening, Mr. Darvill. You’re welcome to come in if you wish, but there’s no point. The woman whose child you were planning to seize is no longer here. Neither is the little boy.”