"Bloody hell," Eric swore softly as the MacArran coach rolled to a halt outside of Lady Wylde's townhouse. "She must be the most bloody-minded female I've ever had the misfortune to meet."

"Then why did you agree to this?" Hank asked before peering out the coach window.

"Devil take it, what else was I supposed to do? She was determined to go, and God knows, if she had gone alone..." Eric gritted his teeth as he looked out the window as well. "I wouldn't put it past her to get out of the coach and walk through the street in order to get a better look."

"I said I would accompany her," Hank pointed out.

"That is not reassuring."

"What does that mean?"

The angry note in Hank's voice made Eric turn towards him. "I meant no insult, I assure you. I was merely stating a fact."

"I see," Hank replied stiffly.

Eric sighed, his new friend was growing more indignant by the moment. Without pausing to consider why he was bothering to explain himself to an American, Eric said--"My coachman also fulfills the duties of a bodyguard. He deals with any highwaymen or riff-raff my coach may encounter on the roads from MacArran Castle in Scotland to London."

"Oh," Hank finally said after a long pause.

"I'm certain Tam can deal with creatures of the gutters equally well. What's more, I trust im completely to remain silent about tonight's little adventure and Lady Silverbridge's involvement."

"He wouldn't even tell your grandfather?" Hank asked skeptically.

"Why would he? The Duke doesn't pay Tam's wages--I do."

"Your own coachman?" Hank sounded suitably impressed.

Before Eric could comment on Hank's ignorance of the ways of Society, he caught sight of a cloaked figure in the fog.

"And there's the lady herself," Hank commented only seconds after Eric had noticed the cloak.

There was a soft rap on the coach door, and Eric opened it. Before either young men could assist her, Diana climbed nimbly into the coach and sat down in the seat Eric vacated as he moved to sit next to Hank. The lack of light in the coach's interior did nothing to hide the sparkle of excitement in her eyes. "I am very happy that you kept you bargain, Lord Blackmoor."

"Did you think I would not keep my word, Lady Silverbridge?" Eric inquired. "You wound me."

"I vow, I did not mean to call your honour into question, my lord," Diana laughed. "But you did agree rather reluctantly."

"Because it's the most ridiculous notion I've heard."

"Oh, I find that difficult to believe," Diana sounded amused.

Eric sighed. "Let's get this damned nonsense over with, shall we?" He opened the small window that allowed him to speak to the driver. "To the East End, Tam. As we discussed earlier."

"Aye, m'lord," replied a rich Scottish burr. "'Tis a right bit of poor judgement if you ask me."

"I couldn't agree more, Tam," Eric said dryly. "Take us, anyway."

"Aye, m'lord."

Preston rolled over and burrowed his head under the ragbag that served as his pillow. When that didn't block out the insistent tapping, he sighed and got up from his straw tick and crossed the small basement room that Kells had provided him to sleep in. He didn't mind the low quarters at all, as the wall where his bed was right next to the kitchen stove and he managed to keep warm even on the coldest nights. The single street-level window meant that this room was less drafty than the rest of the house. At the moment, it was that lonely window which was the source for the irritating tapping.

Preston stood on an empty crate and unlatched the window. Coated as it was with years of grime, the glass was impossible to see outside. The rusty hinges resisted for a few seconds, the with a nerve-scraping groan, allowed Preston to pull the window open.

When he finally looked outside, he nearly fell of his crate in surprise. "Sheila!"

"Faith, but I'm truly sorry for this, Preston," Sheila whispered. "But I'm terrible feared for Bobby."

"Bobby?" Preston glanced over his shoulder.

"What?" Came a drowsy voice.

Sheila's eyes widened. "He's in there?"

"Yes, he didn't want to got to the Costers' house."

"Blessed St. Patrick," Sheila breathed.

"Is that you, Sheila?" Bobby sounded more alert now.

"Aye, Bobby. I'm after wanting to talk to you--both of you."

"We'll be out right away," Preston said before his closed the window.

Sheila settled herself on the steps that led down from the street to the kitchen door. Preston and Bobby emerged from the door almost immediately.

Bobby scrambled up the steps to sit next to his sister. "Faith, and what's happened, Sheila? Are ye well?"

"Aye, Bobby," Sheila assured him. "Well enough, considering I was scared half out of my wits when you were nowhere t'be found tonight."

"Th'Costers were drunk as lords tonight," Bobby explained. "Old man Coster was in a right foul temper, he was, and I didna was t'be anywhere near 'im. Preston said I could share his room. What're y'doin' lookin' fer me at such an hour?"

Rather than answering Bobby, Sheila turned to the young apprentice. "My thanks again t'ye, Preston. Ye've been taking far better care of my laddie than I have."

"That's not true!" Preston argued immediately.

"Ah, but 'tis. Bobby, me lad, you'll go to the Costers no more."

Bobby squirmed uncomfortably. "Truth t'tell, Sheila, I've no been there for some time. Ye'll not be payin' them anymore, will ye?"

"Not a sixpence," Sheila's expression was resolute. "I'll be after finding you another place to board."

Bobby scowled. "There's no need fer that. I c'n look after meself well enough."

"Nay , acushla, not while I'm breathing," Sheila frowned. "But that t'isn't here nor that. I've come t'tell you to be sure to be at Kelthorne at first light tomorrow--and Preston too, if he likes."

"Kelthorne Hall? Faith, whatever for?"

"They're needing extra staff for the grand ball His Grace is giving. I told Mr. Houghton I know of some likely lads who would serve as pages."

"Us?!"

"Nay, the street arabs I met on the way here," Sheila replied with a teasing smile. "Who else but you?"

"A chance to work inside Kelthorne Hall?" Bobby exclaimed. "Bedad, we--"

"Robert, don't be vulgar," Sheila said with a quelling look.

"Aye, Sheila," Bobby agreed out of pure habit. "But 'tis a grand thing."

"That it is, achusla," Sheila nodded. "And you, Preston? Will you be presentin' yourself at Kelthorne tomorrow?"

"I'll be there at first light," Preston grinned. "Thank you for including me. I can always use a little extra."

"Aye, and who can't?" Sheila returned the smile.

"Kelthorne Hall does its hirin' at first light?" Bobby looked thoughtful. "I didna think th'Fancy would be doin' their hirin' so early."

"They don't," Sheila replied. "I want time to get you cleaned and mended before you present yourselves to Mr. Houghton."

Bobby grimaced, but assured his sister they would be there. Sheila stood and turned to go back up the steps when Bobby scrambled up in front of her. "Faith, Sheila, I nearly forgot about Ma's needlework bag! If y'set here but a minute more, I'll be fetchin' it from the Costers'."

"Now? Bobby, don't be daft."

"'Tis the best time," Bobby assured her. "They'll be all the worse for the drink and sleepin' the sleep of the dead." Before his sister could protest further, he clambered up the steps.

Sheila propped her chin on her hands and shot Preston a rueful smile. "Might as well try tellin' a storm which way to blow," she sighed, making Preston laugh.

He alighted from his carriage, and motioned for his driver to wait for him. The driver nodded, he was well-paid, and always followed orders without asking questions. If his employer had a taste for snatching beggars from the streets, it was none of his concern.

The man walked swiftly and silently to a dark alley, certain that the boy would have to pass by it again. After several minutes of waiting, he was rewarded by the sight of his model returning the way he came. His fingers tingled with anticipation.

What an utter waste of a perfectly good evening, Eric thought to himself as his carriage rolled through the East End. I'm sure Lady Silverbridge has been invited to any number of balls, but instead she is determined to tour the stews. He looked at the young lady seated across from him, but she was staring intently out the window.

Hank was seated next to him, since propriety dictated that neither of the young men could sit next to Diana. It occurred to Eric that it was ridiculous to maintain that tiny bit of decorum, for if it ever got out that Lady Silverbridge had gone riding with two men in a closed carriage in the dead of night, her reputation would be in tatters.

Unlike Diana, Eric only looked out of the window from time to time in order to check their location, but did not spend any more time than necessary studying the streets. Hank had initially been as enthralled with the view as Diana, but sometime after they had passed Dorset Street, he had turned from the window and had not looked out again. Even in the dim light of the carriage Eric could see that Hank had lost a great deal of colour.

The Viscount's pallor notwithstanding, Eric found that an hour spent riding through the slums was too much to be borne. It would take nearly another hour to return to Park Lane, and he had no desire to prolong it. He was about to suggest that they consider returning, but Hank spoke first--

"I wouldn't have thought that you were the sort to be entertained by the suffering of others, Lady Silverbridge."

Eric gaped at him. Such a statement was beyond the pale for anyone, and a complete shock coming from a young man who up until then had been everything agreeable and diffident.

Diana turned from the window and fixed her gaze on Hank. "You object to this tour?"

"It's a poor form of amusement. I think it's cruel in some ways."

"Now see here, Rayner," Eric interrupted. "The very Pinkest of the Pinks take tours of the stews. Some of them even tour St. Bethlehem's. You've got no call to cut Lady Silverbridge just because she wanted to see what the fuss was about. One would think--"

"Please, Lord Blackmoor," Diana said softly but firmly. "While it is very gallant of you to rush to my defence, I'll not be the cause of a quarrel between you two. I'm perfectly able to address Lord Rayner myself." She turned her dark eyes back on Hank. "Is there something in my actions or countenance that suggests I am amused, my lord?"

"No," Hank admitted.

"No," Diana repeated. "I do not find it amusing by any means. Fascinating, perhaps. I've read about such poverty, and I know we lived in the midst of it in India, but Papa would never allow me to go into the heart of Cairo. I wanted to see for myself if what people wrote of London's poor was exaggerated."

"My apologies, Lady Silverbridge," Hank said, and Diana nodded her acceptance. He was still uneasy with the notion that people would want to observe the misfortunes of others in the same manner one watched caged animals, but was relieved to find that Diana's interest was intellectual rather than the desire for a new lark. "How does it compare with what you've read, Lady Silverbridge?" he asked, curious in spite of himself.

"I suppose the author was fairly accurate, but he neglected to mention that so many of the poor were women or that more of them are children. It's quite shocking, don't you think?"

"I think it's down-heartening," Hank replied, looking out the window. "And very sad."

And endlessly boring, Eric thought, although he knew he couldn't say so out loud. He found it extremely irritating that despite the insult Hank had delivered, Diana was quite willing to forgive him and go on speaking as though nothing untoward had happened. He was secretly glad that neither of them had asked him was he thought of the slums, for he would have to admit that he'd not thought of them at all, except to take precautions that none of the riff-raff would approach his carriage.

Listening to Hank's tone, one could almost take him for a reformer who wished the monarchy and nobility torn down. But then he is an American, Eric reminded himself. It probably has something to do with the way he was raised. Devil take it, he's going to make a cake of himself--and me--if he starts spouting his fustian while I'm trying to introduce him to ladies and gentlemen. He hasn't even the sense to refrain from discussing such things with ladies!

As he turned half an ear back to the conversation, however, Eric reluctantly admitted that Diana didn't seem put off by the discussion of such unpleasant things. She was eagerly asked Hank about a hard winter in New Hampshire when everyone in his town found themselves as destitute as any street arab.

Eric began to wish that he hadn't agreed to be the person to show Hank around London. Initially, he'd only made the offer because the Duke had seemed so pleased to hear him inviting Hank to join him at Tattersall's and Eric wanted a little more of that approval. He got it--MacArran had praised him greatly for taking "the American" under his wing. Eric knew that to abandon Hank now would lead to endless lectures and scorn from his grandfather.

Besides, Eric conceded, for the most part Hank was actually fairly good company. The way he looked to Eric for guidance much of the time was extremely flattering. What's more, Hank was honest in his admiration or disapproval of the world around him, and Eric could always be certain that a compliment from him was genuine. That was more than could be said for the earwigs and coxcombs he normally surrounded himself with. Eric knew that it infuriated his grandfather no end to have him constantly associating with swells of little consequence and less honour. The Duke would constantly tell Eric that the back-biters only wanted a share of his money and the chance to move into Society and that all their praise and flattery was a means to that end.

Eric never bothered to inform His Grace that he was well-aware that the flattery was merely Spanish coin and they would leave him in the dust should his pockets suddenly turn up empty. He didn't much like that freebooters that flocked around him and found some of their activities too smoky by half. But they were always deferential and would accept with a smile the most cutting insult Eric could offer. All he had to do for their constant admiration was spend his money freely. As for using him as a stepping-stone into Society--Eric had no intention of ever allowing them to do that. He never extended them an invitation to either Kelthorne Hall or any of the clubs on St. James. When with people of quality he never acknowledged them and when with them, he never went anywhere they might meet up with people of quality. He was certain the back-biters despised him for such treatment, although none of them could allow their feelings to show. He loathed them for their falseness and baseness, but spending a few pounds here and there and being praised to the sky as a result was far easier than trying to win his grandfather's respect. For years, he had tried in every way he could, but always, always fell far short of his father's flawless character.

"Eric?" Hank's voice jolted him from his reverie.

"I beg pardon. I was wool-gathering. You were saying?"

"We were wondering, my lord," Diana said. "What would best be done to ease the worst of this poverty. Have you any suggestions?"

Eric blinked in surprise. When had the conversation taken this turn? Recovering, he managed to say-- "There are many charities that see to such things. I'm sure Lady Wylde or Lady Ravenwood would know of them."

Diana seemed content enough with that answer, but Hank looked disappointed. "Of course," was all he said.

Eric was infuriated. This silent disapproval was something he had to endure from his grandfather, but be damned if he was going to take it from a strait-laced, countrified colonial. "Before your spirits are depressed any further, Rayner," he said coolly. "Perhaps we should return to Park Lane."

The words were polite enough, but the tone left Hank wondering how had irritated his temperamental new friend. "Certainly, Eric, if you think that's best," he replied in a similar tone.

"Lady Silverbridge?" Eric turned to Diana.

Ordinarily, Diana would have requested they tour a bit longer, but she could sense the tension radiating from the two young men. "By all means, my lord. I am quite satisfied."

Eric relaxed visibly at her words. "I'm glad to hear it, my lady." Turning slightly, he opened the small trap to speak to his coachman. "Back to the lady's home on Park Lane, Tam."

"Aye, milord. 'Tis shorter through Covent Garden. D'ye want me t'go that way?"

"Bye all means, Tam. The shorter the better."

Vengrave watched the boy sneak into a tiny shack and emerge with a rag clenched in his hand. Neither the rag nor the shack meant anything to Vengrave, but he knew that the boy was heading back to his friends with his prize. A quick glance told him that his coach was directly across from him, the door partially opened for an easier entrance.

With each step the boy took towards him, Vengrave's fingers twitched more violently. What portrait would this one make? He was too healthy and vibrant to pose as the victim of a wasting disease--as so many of his recent portraits had been. No, a quick, violent death would better suit this brash Irish lad. Vengrave had heard bits and pieces of his conversation and knew the boy was Irish. That he was brash as well was demonstrated by the swaggering stride, the cocky tilt to his head and his stubborn chin that jutted out slightly.

He would make a fine portrait indeed, and he was merely two steps away...

...and now one...

Silence reigned in the MacArran coach.

Any attempt by Hank or Diana to make conversation was squelched by Eric; Diana's politely and Hank's ruthlessly. Hank's tone had grown more bewildered and apologetic until it took every ounce of Eric's courtesy to keep from calling him out.

Hank had finally subsided and was gazing out the window. From London Bridge to the merging of Fleet Street and the Strand, no one spoke a word.

Then Eric heard a sharp intake of breath from Hank and turned, annoyed, to ask what was the matter. He saw Hank all but pressed against the coach window, craning his neck in an attempt to see something far down the street.

"What is it?" Diana asked, peering out her own window.

"Stop the coach!" Hank said to Eric.

"Stop the coach?" Eric was incredulous. "We're in the middle of Covent Garden."

"I think there's someone in trouble! We have to stop!"

"Certainly not."

The next instant, Hank had the small trap door open. "Stop at once!" he commanded in a tone that could have come from the king himself.

It certainly worked on Tam. He reined in the horses immediately, but Hank was out even before the coach had stopped rolling.

"The man is a lunatic," was all Eric could say.

"Lemme go, y'bracket-faced, gin-soaked Sassenach! I'll be cuttin' off yer head and makin' a days work o'yer neck, I will! I'll cut out yer eyes and spit in th'sockets, y'bleedin' gull-catcher!"

Just as Vengrave was reflecting that it was lucky that no one in Covent Garden would pay much attention to such a scene, he heard footsteps pounding towards them.

"What are you doing?! Let him go!"

Vengrave looked, thinking he'd have to bully the boy's two friends into handing his model over. He did not expect to see a youth whose fine clothing marked him as a young blood of the ton.

The boy, realizing he had an ally, yelled all the louder. "He's a bleedin' divil, he is! I was takin' me ma's needlework bag t'me sister when he nabbed me! I'll no go wi'him! Me sister's waitin' on me!"

The youth's face darkened and he gripped Vengrave's wrist. "Leave him be. He doesn't want to go with you!"

Abruptly, Vengrave shoved the boy towards the youth so hard that they both fell onto the cobblestones. He stepped into his coach and ordered his driver to move along.

"Are you all right?" Hank asked when he'd regained his breath. The boy had landed square on his stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

"Aye," the boy replied, getting to his feet. He turned and shook his fist at the disappearing coach. "May th'divil swallow ye sideways, y'bleedin' Sassenach! May th'divil take y'by th'heels and shake ye! May ye fester in yer grave like th'demon y'are! May--" he broke off abruptly when he heard someone chuckling behind him.

"If any one of those come true, I'll say he's been properly punished."

The boy frowned. "Faith, but ye talk strange fer a Sassen--fer an Englishman."

"That's probably because I'm American."

The boy lifted his chin proudly. "I'm pure Irish, I am. Me name's Bobby O'Brien."

The boy's cocky manner reminded Hank of friends back home and he couldn't help smiling. "I'm Hank Grayson."

"Truly yer from Americay?" Bobby's eyes were keen with interest.

"I am."

"Are y'homesick here? I pine t'see Ireland again. 'Tis the grandest place in th'world."

"You've never seen America," Hank replied. "It's the best place in the world."

"Ah, but ye've neva seen Ireland," Bobby returned and they grinned at one another.

A flash of colour caught Hank's eye, something out of place on the filthy London streets. "You mentioned your mother's needlework bag," Hank nodded towards the bright cloth.

"St. Patrick's eyes!" Bobby scrambled to snatch the bag from the mud. "T'would be awful t'lose this."

"Is your mother very fond of it?"

"Aye, she was," Bobby looked up at him with trust in his eyes. "She and Da were killed jus' months after we came t'London."

"I'm sorry, Bobby," Hank said quietly. "I know what that's like. My parents were killed in a fire six months ago. You're lucky to have a sister, though. I often wished I had a brother or sister."

Bobby's eyes widened. "Faith, how did y'know I had a sister?" he asked in amazement, having forgotten all the things he'd shouted in his struggle.

"You told me so yourself. Hadn't you better get back to her? She's probably worried."

"Bobby!" an anxious voice called.

Bobby grinned at Hank again. "Me sister's a seelie, she is! Speak o'her or say her name an' she appears--quick as any will o'the wisp."

Hank couldn't help laughing, but his humour disappeared when two more people rushed up to them, both pale with concern.

"Faith, Bobby, y'had me scared out o'me wits! Preston and I heard a great row coming from this way and I was scared to death it might have been you."

"It was," Bobby replied proudly, then proceeded to explain that a "bleedin' Sassenach" had tried to drag him off.

He never got to finish his tale, because halfway through, his sister snatched him up in a desperate hug. "Saints above, acushla, I have to take you away from this wretched city!"

"Faith, Sheila, that divil wouldn't'a got me. And Hank was there t'help me. The viper's lucky he got away when he did."

"Hank?" Sheila frowned, then remembered the young man her brother had been talking to.

"Hank Grayson, Miss O'Brien." Hank smiled involuntarily at the pretty face before him. The shawl that half-covered her head was old and faded, but it did nothing to detract from the bright red curls which tumbled about her face. Hank knew at once that the young woman was not one which his aunt and uncle would include in their circle of friends, but that made little difference to him. He was taken with the smattering of pale freckled scattering over the ivory skin, with the small straight nose that had just the slightest tilt at the tip, and especially with the large, deep blue eyes.

Sheila recognized the admiration in the young stranger's sky-blue eyes, but for once she was pleased rather than worried. Her instincts told her that she had nothing to fear from this handsome young man, and not merely because he had just rescued her brother.

"He's from Americay, Sheila," Bobby informed his sister, jolting her back to the present. "Sure, and I should've known that. What Englishman would eva stop t'help a soul. 'Specially in Coven' Garden."

Sheila looked at Bobby then back at Hank. "You're American?"

"That's right. I've only been in London for a few weeks, actually." Hank's smile widened. "And you're Irish. I would have known even if Bobby hadn't told me."

Preston watched Sheila converse with Bobby's rescuer with much bewilderment and growing concern. American he might be, but did Sheila not see the fine clothes that marked him as a member of the upper classes? He didn't act like Society, though. When he was introduced to Preston, Hank held out his hand to shake. In all his life, no one had ever offered to shake hands with Preston before and here the Grayson fellow was acting as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Without realizing it, Preston stood a little straighter and held his head a bit higher.

"You don't suppose he's come to any harm, do you?" Diana asked, looking anxiously out the window for a glimpse of the Viscount.

"It he does, it's no more than he deserves."

"Surely you don't mean that, Lord Blackmoor."

"By rights we should be on our way. It would serve the fool right to be stranded in Covent Garden."

"Can't you have you coachman drive about so we might see him?"

"Go chasing about Covent Garden looking for a fool? No, thank you all the same."

Diana tilted her head to one side as she studied the Marquis. She suspected that his bark was much worse than his bite, although his bark was fairly nasty in itself. She knew that manners and proprieties had been bred into him since birth and decided that she'd have to take a gamble. "I can't in good conscience sit here when Viscount Rayner may be in danger." With those words she opened the door and hopped out of the coach so quickly that Eric didn't have the chance to protest.

Good Lord! I've been driving about London with a lunatic and a madwoman! Eric swore mightily, and paused only long enough to pick up Hank's tall beaver hat before leaving the coach. "Wait here, Tam," he ordered.

"Aye, milord." There was laughter in the Scot's voice, but Eric was too distracted to notice.

Eric soon managed to overtake Diana and it was all he could do not to grab her arms and shake some sense into her. "Have you lost your wits completely?" he hissed.

She favoured him with a brilliant smile. "Good evening, Lord Blackmoor. How lovely to see you again." She sounded as though they were at a grand ball rather than standing on a filthy street.

"You have lost your wits!" Eric groaned. "Have you not thought whatever for your reputation?"

"Apparently not," Diana replied lightly, then continued walking up the street.

"Damnation!" Eric hurried after her, shrugging off his greatcoat as he went. "Here," he said when he caught up with her again. "Put this on, for God's sake," he thrust the greatcoat at her. "If anyone recognizes you, Lady Wylde will have to pack you off to the country at once."

Diana slipped the greatcoat on and buttoned it--no easy feat when the sleeves were several inches longer than her arms. Although she was taller than most ladies, the hem of the coat still touched the ground, which fortunately meant that not an inch of her dress could be seen.

"This will have to do," Eric sounded resigned. He clapped Hank's hat on her head and pulled the brim low over her forehead.

Diana couldn't help herself. She burst into giggles.

"There is absolutely nothing funny about this situation," Eric sounded insulted.

With great difficulty, Diana composed herself. "You are right, of course. We must find Lord Rayner."

"And the sooner the better," Eric agreed, taking her arm as they started up Drury Lane. Eric thanked the stars for the late hour. Earlier in the evening, Society would have been wandering up and down the Lane, attending one of the offerings of the many theatres.

Finally, they spotted Hank, and Eric was immediately incensed. What is the imbecilic bumpkin about? Passing the time of day with two guttersnipes and some chit? Angrily, he strode toward the quartet. Diana had to run to keep up. "Rayner!" he said in a sharp voice. "What do you mean by making the coach wait while you stand about out here?"

Sheila's heart nearly stopped when she heard that voice. Mr. Grayson was an acquaintance of the Marquis! She took another look at Hank and saw the fine clothes she hadn't noticed before. And what if his lordship should see me? Blessed Virgin, I'll be turned out sure as I'm standing here! She caught her brother's hand and began edging away.

"I'm sorry, Eric. But the boy--Bobby--" Hank nodded towards them and Sheila froze. "He was in trouble. Then his sister and his friend arrived and we got to talking. Where is--" he broke off when a bizarre figure behind Eric waved at him. He stared hard, seeing the hat was his own, and then realized who was wearing it. "Oh."

"Shall we be on our way?" Eric asked, although it was more of a command than a suggestion.

"Of course, Eric. It was nice to meet you, Preston," he shook hands with the young apprentice again. Messing Bobby's hair, he grinned, "Don't give your sister too much trouble, now."

"I won't," Bobby returned the grin.

Sheila was trying to shrink back into the shadows, but Hank caught her eye. He gave her a warm smile. "It was a great pleasure to meet you, Miss O'Brien."

"Thank you, sir. My thanks again for saving my brother."

"I was happy to help, although Bobby probably would have escape on his own. He's a real fighter."

"Still, t'isn't anyone that would have stepped in." Uncertainly, she held out her hand.

Eric was torn between amusement and amazement when Hank actually took Sheila's hand. For a moment it looked as though he was actually going to raise it to his lips. They gazed into each other's eyes until Eric said-- "The coach is waiting."

"I'll be right there," Hank replied quietly, never taking his eyes from Sheila's face. "Good night, Miss O'Brien."

"Good night to you, sir."

A corner of Eric's mouth quirked upwards. "'Enjoyed' would be a gross understatement," he replied, as he recalled Diana's excited conversation during the ride back. "One hopes she manages to restrain herself, otherwise all our work at protecting her reputation will be for naught."

"I don't think she would tell anyone about it."

"No doubt she feels you are responsible for turning a simple tour into a great adventure. Quite rightfully, too."

"I am sorry, Eric. But the boy was in trouble, I couldn't just--"

Eric waved the apology away. "You explained your actions to me on Drury Lane and again in the coach. There's no need to go through all that again. Let us put the matter to rest."

"I'd appreciate that."

"Done," Eric said briskly, they he flashed one of his rare grins. "And what of the street rat's sister? You seemed rather taken with her."

Hank turned a dull red. "His name is Bobby, and I though we weren't going to talk about it anymore."

"About you jumping from the coach like a candidate from Bedlam, no. But this is a different matter entirely."

"Is it?" Hank looked a bit uncomfortable.

"Indeed. I vow, she didn't seem like a common bit o' muslin. No doubt she views herself as rather respectable."

Hank frowned. "Respectable? Why wouldn't she be?"

"Then what, pray tell, was she doing on Drury Lane in the dead of night?"

"I don't know. But then, Lady Silverbridge was on Drury Lane in the middle of the night."

Eric was stunned into speechlessness for several long minutes. When he did speak, his voice was strangled. "Never say you are actually comparing Lady Silverbridge to the likes of that Irish chit."

"'The likes of?' What do you mean by that? And she not a chit--her name is Sheila."

Eric didn't press the subject any further. He was taken aback by the amount of anger in Hank's tone and face. He sighed inwardly, Americans. I wonder if the entire nation is so bloody-minded.

Sheila made her way up to the top floor of Kelthorne Hall and crept into the small room she shared with three other housemaids. Silently, she slipped into her night rail and laid down on her narrow bed. Normally, she was exhausted from the day's work and fell into a deep sleep immediately, but tonight she was wide awake. The prospect of Bobby being employed at the hall, the scene with the Costers, and the horror of Bobby's near-abduction all paled before the image of a handsome young American.

Hank Grayson. Sheila thought it was a fine, noble-sounding name that suited him perfectly. He was obviously a friend of the Marquis of Blackmoor, yet he'd stood talking to her, Bobby and Preston as though they were of the Fancy. His clothes and friends marked him as someone as wealth and consequences, but he didn't seem aware of it and acted as though he was no better than she was.

And what lovely eyes! Not the dark Kerry blue of herself and her brother, but a pale blue--almost silvery in the dim light of Drury Lane. And when he looked at her...

Sheila snuggled under her covers with a heartfelt sigh. Tomorrow she would recall the vast social distance between her and Hank Grayson. Tomorrow she would go back to being practical and sensible. Tonight was for dreaming.

Vengrave had his coachman turn back onto Drury Lane and stop a short distance from the group of young people. He watched them until everyone went their separate ways, and finally reached his decision. He had never before abandoned his pursuit of a model--always the pursuit had ended in the creation of a new work of art, but he now decided that the Irish street rat would not be the best choice. He was grateful to the little Paddy, though, for the boy had introduced him to someone who would likely make a masterpiece better than any he'd ever imagined.

The risk was immeasurable, this was not someone that could disappear unnoticed. Vengrave soon reached the conclusion, however, that any risk was worth it. In his mind's eye, he could already picture his finished work. He would call it "Death of an Avenging Angel."

On to Part V
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