It was still a half day's ride to London. Nikita Wentwirth didn't know how on earth she was going to endure it, being sandwiched in the coach between a dandy in daffodil yellow inexpressibles called Percival Snow and a very portly middle aged lady called Mrs. Hatch, who held a small yapping dog in a basket on her lap.

Percival kept shooting her sly glances beneath his lashes. She had tired very hard at first to be polite, but halfway through the journey Nikita just tried her best to ignore him.

" Just what sort of name is Nikita, Miss Wentwirth? " Percival Snow asked.

Nikita tried to move as far away from him as she could in the cramped space. His breath smelled of the mussels and brandy he'd consumed at the last stop. She told herself, with not a little disgust, that he must be one of those people who doused himself liberally with perfume rather than wash.

" Nikita is just the name I was given. I know little of its history, sir." That was a lie. She had been named after her father, Lord Nicholas Wentwirth, and her mother Kitty, but she was not about to discuss the personal details of her life. Besides, she had little information about the man she knew only from a miniature painted a short time before his death. He had died before Nikita's birth leaving her mother bereft. Her mother had spoken little to her of the man she called the love of her life. She died of a wasting disease when Nikita was but twelve.

She'd been raised by her grandfather, the Vicar of Leicestershire, James Grantham. A more domineering old codger one could never meet. For all that he seemed to despise Nikita for her intrusion in his life, he did see that she had some semblance of education in things besides the womanly arts. He cared little if she used his extensive library as long as she stayed out of sight and kept her mouth firmly shut. That was fine by her. Nikita was, by nature, a solitary sort of child and had been quite happy to get into mischief on her own in the countryside or to curl up in the crotch of a high tree with a good book and a crispy apple to eat.

" Why are you going to London, Miss Wentwirth? " asked Mrs. Hatch.

" I have taken a position as companion to a pair of sisters. They are spending the season in their house in Mayfair and wish me to act as their social secretary and companion." Actually she was going to London to drink in the sights and the sounds. She was determined to write a novel, something exciting and shocking, the sort of rousing and exciting tale that everyone would clamour buy, but deny ever owning. She had a great fondness for such books. She had read everything from the shocking and enlightening " Fanny Hill", Daniel Defoe's " Moll Flanders " to Quincy's " Confessions of an English Opium Eater."

" Oh, la!. Have you experience in this regard, Miss Wentwirth? Have you had a London season? " asked Mrs. Hatch.

" No. I didn't have a season, I'm afraid. My grandfather does not believe in such frivolity." Not that it would have mattered if he had wanted Nikita to come out. He could never have paid for it, as introducing a young woman into society was monstrously expensive. Sometimes a girl of modest means might be sponsored by an older relative with ready money.

There was no one to sponsor her. And she had retained firm doubt in her mind that she would have 'taken.' She was not of conventional looks. At the time she would have come out, the rage among the ton was for girls with chestnut hair and small, rounded figures and tittering laughs. She knew that she resembled more of an Amazon than a titmouse. No one would say that her looks put her in the class of ape leader, but her height was intimidating.

Her mother had said she was pretty. Her hair was light blonde, tinged with strands of darker gold, her face oval, her nose pert, her lips full and pink. She thought her eyes her best feature. They were wide and as blue as Canterbury bells. Her face was painted with a smattering of light freckles that no amount of lemon juice would fade, not that she would try that again anyway. Her figure was rounded and feminine, despite the fact that her shoulders may have been a trifle wide. Her legs were long and well shaped, her ankles trim above shapely feet. Her grandfather said, with some acrimony, that Nikita could draw stares like honey drew bears.

She moved with confidence for she was quite used to walking miles of country road. Her diet, good country fare, contributed to her health and well-being. She could not remember ever being sick. Her smile was easy and cheerful, for she wasn't one of those girls to simper and try to compose her face into whatever sort of look society deemed acceptable at the moment.

She did not think much about what might have happened had she been allowed to make her debut in society. She had grown up accepting that the circumstances of her birth were something she could never change. It had always seemed a waste of time to dwell on things that could not be changed.

Her father's mother, the Dutchess Adrienne Wentwirth, had never acknowledged her existence, so Nikita had come to the conclusion that being only one step above a bastard, she ought to just enjoy her life the way that it was.

Her grandmother lived in London during the Season, but Nikita would not have known the woman were she have come to meet her face to face. Nikita doubted that she would acknowledge a granddaughter who aspired-- not to finding herself a man with a yearly income in the tens of thousands-- to writing novels.

It was a good thing Nikita had such aspirations. They might some day allow her the independence of which she dreamed. At twenty five Nikita was considered an old maid, far to old to be introduced into the marriage mart.

She would never marry. She was quite certain of it. That was a sore spot with her grandfather as she had recently turned down a proposal from a young man he considered a very fine prospect. Nikita had no wish to marry a man who was five inches shorter than she. He'd had a lisp and an over bite. He blushed every time he spoke to her and he smelled musty, like an old leather valise left overnight in the rain. She had thought about the prospect of marrying him for a full five minutes, imagining a country life with him, stitching away in the parlour, bearing children with overbites and large ears, the highlight of her week going to church on Sunday. She very quickly dismissed the prospect as hellish and declined the offer.

" What are the names of these ladies? " asked Percival.

Nikita tried not to frown. She was quite certain that if Mr. Percival Snow could only afford to ride the post to London, he certainly would not know Lady Olivia and Lady Chloe Fairhurst. She mentioned the names. His eyebrows shot straight up in surprise. Obviously they were known by reputation.

" Why, they are rich as Croceus. Have you met their nephew, Lord Freddy? "

" No. I have not." She was aware of the wealth of her new employers and their various holdings. Her grandfather had gone on at nauseating length about it. " I've heard that he's gone to Scotland."

" Poor, Fred. Scotland? Wild and wooly place, that. Dear old Freddy's quite the fixture at White's. He's there most nights. He's beat me in plenty a game of cards."

Nikita, thought raised in the country, was familiar with the men's club and of the vices of the ton's male establishment. It seemed that gaming, keeping mistresses and wearing impeccable clothes were all that entered the brain of a London rake. Most men aspired to be rakes. It was a badge of male honour. Freddy sounded like the typical dandy. A lazy roustabout with little more to offer than fine clothes and a fat wallet stuffed by the grace of a large allowance from his father's estate and a pair of generous aunts.

" Will you be living in the house in Mayfair ? "

" Yes. The sisters had several large estates in the countryside, but they spend the longer Season in Mayfair in their townhouse."

" Mayfair!" piped up Mrs. Hatch. " Have you heard about the daring Thief of Mayfair? They say that he's been at it for months. A jewel thief. He breaks in during the dead of night, takes the finest jewellery and leaves a calling card."

" A calling card? "

" Yes. He signs it in French as Coeur Noir. Means Black Heart, I think. None of the Bow Street Runners have been able to catch him at it, but one woman did catch him in her boudoir. He gave her a kiss and she told him to take everything. Everything, even her wedding ring." Mrs Hatch tittered over that scandalous event. Even the quiet old lady across from her seemed interested.

" She said that he was the handsomest devil she'd ever seen, though he did wear a silken mask over his face of course. But when the Bow Street Runners asked her for a specific description she was quite unable to tell them anything. Turns out that he only took one piece of jewellery. A necklace that had been recently acquired and was quite valuable."

Nikita Wentwirth, fledgling writer, was thinking that it might make the most marvellous plot for a book.

" It seems that some of the ladies of the ton are so taken with the idea of the handsome thief coming upon them that they are bragging in most unseemly fashion about the jewels they possess. They wear the stuff in spades to parties with the hopes that the French thief might notice and come calling."

" Trust it to be a demmed Frenchie." sputtered Percival." My own brother was killed on the Peninsula. The deemed war against Boney might be over now but it's my opinion that we shouldn't be allowing them into the country." As was the cases with most of the British, animosity against the French continued to fester.

With that the conversation became a diatribe against the French. Nikita settled herself as best she could against the squabs and thought about the dashing thief of Mayfair.

Black Heart. It was a prodigious romantic name for a hero.

The sister's five story townhouse sat in the heart of Mayfair. Built in the Georgian era, it had an excellent address not far from Hyde Park. There were rows of similar residences, all white, all similar, sporting pristine sidewalks and window boxes filled with bright red geraniums and trailing tendrils of ivy. The sister's house had marble sculptures of chained lions on either side of the steps leading to a black painted front door with a huge brass knocker that portrayed the face of a growling tiger. It was a far cry from the vicar's cottage where Nikita Wentwirth had lived with her grandfather.

She was aware that not all of the residences on Curzon Street were owned by their current occupants. Some of them functioned as small hotels, rented out by the room for the visiting ton. Others were let for the season by their owners, fully staffed and furnished. The people who rented them were often rich cits, the merchant class, those who had come to London in hopes of having one of their daughters snag an earl or a duke on the marriage mart during the main season. They would make the rounds of parties and give a few, attend the fireworks displays at Vauxhall, see the plays and the opera and if supremely lucky, snag a voucher which would allow them the privilege of attending Almack's club. A voucher could only be obtained under the discretion of several patron-esses who oversaw the social club. Percy Snow told her he had attended Almack's several times as a guest. She didn't know whether to believe him or not.

She had bid fair well to her fellow riders, making Mrs. Hatch a promise that she would stop and take tea with her at the small hotel she ran with her sister. She was hoping that she should not run into Mr. Percy Snow, but he seemed quite determined that they should meet again. She decided that Mr. Percy Snow's interest in her would abate as soon as he spied the bevy of beauties being presented this year to the pink of the ton. No one was going to notice her in her meagre wardrobe standing off to the rear with the other companions. Companions were not generally given permission to dance.

She unpacked the last of her things, three India muslin day dresses, two shawls (not stylish Kashmiri, but hand knitted gift from a parishioner she used to read to on Sunday afternoons), one velvet pelisse and one of brown corduroy and an evening dress of periwinkle sarconet. The dress was a little countrified, but Nikita liked the colour and the lack of frills. She was far too big a girl for that. In frills she felt like an idiot.

Nikita actually had two rooms, a sitting room with a small fireplace and a desk at which to write her stories and a lovely, large bed chamber. She was taken with everything, the east facing windows, the view of the street and its occupants. All she saw tramp before her window in the country was a line of ducks.

Belinda, the lady's maid, entered her rooms with a saucy grin and set towels upon the highboy. She was a very tall woman, an inch or so above Nikita's own lofty height. She'd taken one long look at her on first meeting and had given Nikita some advise on deportment. " Hold your shoulders back, girl, and be proud. Thrust out those breasts. No sense on trying to look like a hedgehog. Won't make you look any smaller in the long run and you're not wanting a dowager's hump."

She stopped with her hands on her glorious hips." Should you need any help dressing, miss, you've only to call on me."

" Dressing? I've never need help before. But thank you. I'll remember that."

" Will you need me to press any frocks, miss?"

" I've only four. I've always done that sort of thing myself. I looked after my grandfather. He's a most particular man. I soon learned not to scorch the linens."

Belinda smiled. " Well, its nice to be handy round the house, miss, but I wouldn't admit that in society. Most girls wouldn't know an iron from a tea pot. Do you miss him? Your grandfather? "

" Like a toothache," Nikita replied without thinking.

Belinda laughed. " I think I'm going to like you, miss. We were all discussing your beauty round the table this morn. It's unusual for a paid companion to be so pretty. We didn't know what to expect. The last companion put on airs. We didn't like her at all. Walter talked about putting deadly nightshade in her morning tea."

Nikita's ears pricked. " He knows about poison? Do you think he'd tell me what he knows? "

Belinda raised a brow. " You'll have to ask him. He says he does. My goodness, I'd set out to shock you with that, miss, and it looks like you've turned the tables. What's your interest in poison? "

" I'm a writer. I want to write mystery tales. I hope to make it my career."

Belinda looked relieved. " For a minute I was thinking you were just daft like the rest of us. Get some sleep, miss. You look worn out from the trip."

" Oh, I'm not worn out. I feel most excited. I'm finally out on my own. It's most liberating." Nikita bounced hard onto the feather bed and grinned. Most liberating indeed.

She supposed it was getting away from her grandfather that made her feel this way, so light on her feet, so in charge of herself. She no longer had to copy out her grandfather's sermons ( in fact rewrite most of them). She could read anything she wanted from the sister's extensive library. There were some books her grandfather would never have approved of her reading. The library was vast, the sister's grandfather having been a scholarly type. She even found the writings of Mary Wollstonecraft there. She'd always wanted to read " Maria".

After Nikita had finished with the mail, answering and sending invitations, she was free until the rounds of calls that started late in the afternoon. Perhaps the only objection she had was to the late nights. The parties and balls generally started in the evening and went on until the wee hours of the morning. The sisters, at fifty and fifty two showed no evidence of being drained by the late nights. They didn't arise until noon. Nikita preferred to rise early and found herself nodding off a little at some of the parties.

She was happy in London, despite a small amount of homesickness. She had made friends with most of the staff already. George, the butler, seemed a little gruff and stiff but that was to be expected from one in his position. He'd once been in King George's employ, the sisters bragged, so he was entitled to his airs. Once you got to know him, he was a kindly, almost fatherly sort.

Walter was the cook. He'd once worked in France as a sous chef before the war and had been chased back to England for some awful transgression. There were several rumours: one that he'd been acting as a spy for England and poisoned someone. This was according to Seymour, the head footman, who admired the chef greatly. Greg, the other footman, who did not get on with the cook, said he'd slipped belladonna in his employer's wine and then slipped into bed with his wife. Nikita was fascinated and decided that she would include his character in one of her novels. As far as she knew, he was happy with the sisters and had not killed anyone yet. Nikita had to believe that her employers were brave old souls.

She assumed the sisters kept him on for his superior abilities. Walter had a tendre for the regal Belinda whom Nikita liked immensely. She often caught them kissing in the hallway.

The other servants included Seymour and Greg, the footmen; Belinda, the tall and saucy lady's maid; Gail, the adorable upstairs maid, whom Seymour and Greg seemed to be fighting over most of the time; and Mick, the cockney coachman who was said to be involved with every pretty girl in Mayfair.

It was a happy staff, a staff well paid and appreciated by their employers.

Nikita, as the lady's companion, was not strictly considered a servant. She dined mostly with the sisters on the days that she did not accompany them to parties. On the first days she had been at the house on Curzon Street, she'd risen to take her breakfast alone in the morning room, but she found the loneliness difficult to bear and one morning had wondered down to the kitchen where she had found the staff merrily eating at a long trestle table before a fire.

They'd stared at her at first in uncertainty but after a moment Walter had smiled and asked if she would like a cup of tea and some of his special oat porridge with treacle and cream. Gail, a sweet smile on her face, had scurried to serve her. She'd been most happy to accept, the idea of a breakfast so like those she'd consumed in the country bringing the silliest tears to her eyes. She had been taking breakfast with them ever since.

It was at breakfast when the servants shared most of their gossip. Mostly it was about their ton neighbours, gleaned from the staff of the other townhouses. Nikita had already learned a great deal about some of the people she was seeing at parties. It was not at all pleasant stuff, perhaps at times a trifle shocking. It seemed that the people of Mayfair traded partners a lot. The men often taking mistresses, their wives lovers among the young bucks.

This particular morning the talk centred around the Thief of Mayfair. It seemed that he had struck again recently, divesting the Earl of Endersby and his wife, a sickly creature, of some of their diamonds and pearls. The staff didn't seem shocked at all, or sorry for the earl. They didn't seem overly fond of the quality.

" Serves 'im bloody right," pronounced Mick around a hunk of fresh baked bread. " Bloke's a right bastard. He's in the gamin' hells while 'is wife is pretendin' at havin' the megrims. I heard it form a good source that she--"

George frowned. " Mick, there are ladies present. I have no particular fondness for the earl either but I'll not have swearing at table." George, as head of the staff, believed in keeping the others in line.

" How many homes has he struck recently?" asked Nikita.

" At least one per week. There's hardly a lord or lady in Mayfair that hasn't been stuck. Some rich cits as well. They're having a right terrible time catching him, miss," said Gail. " The ladies do swoon over how handsome he is in his black silk garments. "

" They haven't seen his face," Nikita said. " How would they know exactly how handsome this fellow is? "

" I doubt they've even seen him. If the bloody fellow was that bumblin', being seen all the time, he'd never get away with anything. I think those society chits are making up half of it to give themselves a thrill. I'll bet you when he takes off his mask, 'e ain't comely at all," pronounced Mick.

" There are other parts on a man considered just as appealing as the face ," said the cheeky Belinda, with a wink to Walter. " Besides, he's French. The English claim to hate them but the ladies all say that the French can teach us all something in the matters of lovemaking."

" I learned a few things in France." Walter gave Belinda a return wink.

The frank talk caused Nikita to blush. She was not a prude. She just was not used to such frankness about intimacy. Nikita doubted she'd ever want to do the things Belinda described with any of the gents of her personal acquaintance. There was not an Ivanhoe or a Lancelot or a dashing hero to be seen. Not that she wanted a conventional hero, mind. She'd always liked the fallen angels types better. They could always be reformed, yet still maintain their devilish and intriguing aspect.

She hadn't met a lot of truly good-looking gentlemen in her time. No one member of the ton she'd met so far impressed her. The penchant for garishly coloured pants and waistcoats, obscenely tight breeches, padded shoulders and even padded stockings and corsetted waists was a mystery to her. The strangely combed hair that must have taken hours to curl and flatten down to the temples in various arrangements took her aback even more. Some men had collars so high and stiff that their ears were covered. They seemed to be wanting to tilt their heads back and stare at the sky, so strangled they were.

Most of the men seemed to mince when they walked. Probably the tight trousers and corset. It was not at all masculine in Nikita's eyes. She had seen Beau Brummel, known as The Beau, and thought he looked ridiculous. She could never imagine kissing, let alone sharing a bed with such a man.

After the padding came off , what would be left? White boney legs? Spindly little arms? She knew what a man looked like naked. She'd seen anatomy books and the drawings of Leonardo DaVinci. Men's bodies as depicted by Michaelangelo'd sculptures did not resemble those of pigeons. The males she had seen in London so far resembled strutting pigeons. Or maybe peacocks with their dotted vests and striped green trousers.

After breakfast Nikita took a walk that led her round the whole of Hyde Park. There were few people about in the park or on the streets in the morning, mostly servants who went off to the market and shops. When she returned, she was informed by George that the sisters had both come down with the ague and would not be making their normal circuit of visits and parties for a few days while they recovered. Nikita was pressed into writing apologies and RSVPs, but would, for a few days be granted the glorious freedom to do as she wished. Or so she hoped.

She visited the sisters in their beds, both bundled up in far too many shawls and clothes and with the windows tightly shut and fires in the grate. She didn't presume to say that fresh air would undoubtedly do them far more good than being cooped up like swaddled infants. Both had been dosed with something the doctor prescribed for them and seemed tired and listless. Poor dear things.

Two days later, they seemed little better and complained incessantly when they were not sleeping. An endless stream of ton visitors came to the door. Nikita was forced to offer them tea and murmur thanks to their polite commiserations. The boredom, inactivity and change in schedule, not to mention an urge to plot on the novel she had started, caused Nikita to rise from her bed late one night.

She had tried to go to sleep far earlier than normal and had succeeded only in tossing and turning. She decided to go down to the library. She had spied a book there, a botany text all about flowers and fungi which she thought would be most helpful in her writing.

Dressed only in her white cambric gown, Nikita took a candle and made her way down the dark backstairs to the library. The house was quiet. The staff slept on the upper floors, except George and Mick. George slept in an apartment on the main floor, and Mick had rooms above the small carriage house in back. No one was likely to catch her trundling about in her nightgown, her books and writing materials in hand, her small wire rimmed spectacles perched on her nose.

She opened the library door, setting her candle on the mahogany desk. " Now where was that book," she whispered to herself. She went up on tiptoes, squinting at the titles. " Ah, there!"

She was about to reach up for it when a leather gloved hand covered her mouth and silk clad arm slid around her waist, clasping her tightly back against a long, hard body. She gasped and struggled against the rock hard arms as warm breath tickled her ear. " Do not make a sound, mademoiselle. I would not want to hurt you."

The thief! The thief of Mayfair!

What in God's name would he do to her? Nikita wondered. She could feel his hand hot against the cambric of her gown, his long fingers pressing into the flesh of her stomach. Her buttocks, naked but for the folds of her voluminous gown pressed into his pelvis. It was thrilling and scary at the same time to be held this way. She tried to speak against the barrier of his hand. It was then that she tasted the metallic tang of blood in her mouth. Certainly not her own, because she hadn't bitten her lip. His pressure was firm but certainly not brutal enough to have cause injury.

Nikita lifted her hand to the one that covered her own. Her fingers came away sticky with blood.

" You're bleeding," she said. It came out sounding more like: " Mmmphhh weenninng."

" No use trying to chat. I intend to tie you up and leave."

" Nooo. Please. I won't scream." She struggled to get the words around his palm.

" What did you say? That you'll not scream. "

"Yes! I'll not scream." Surely he hadn't held his hand over the mouth of that woman she'd heard about, the woman he had kissed in her boudoir. He'd not harmed her. She'd obviously been allowed enough freedom to kiss him. A little frisson of awareness traversed Nikita's spine at the thought of that kiss. " Please... you're bleeding."

" I noticed that. It hurts like hell. You'll not scream? "

" I promise." It sounded more like:" Ah ffwwaptmmm."

He let go.

Nikita couldn't have said anything if she'd wanted to. The sight of the man who had accosted her knocked the breath out of her lungs. They were right about him. His body was beautiful, sinfully exquisite. He was dressed from head to toe in black. Leather boots lovingly clasped his shapely calves, skin tight black breeches skimmed his muscular thighs, narrow but beautifully formed buttocks, slender waist and flat stomach. She did not let her eyes linger too long on the way his trousers highlighted a certain portion of his anatomy. The black silk of his shirt caressed his wide chest and shoulders, the first three buttons open to reveal his the smooth skin of his deep, muscular chest and the tanned column of his neck. The only part of his face that was uncovered was his firm jaw and slightly cleft chin. His mouth was what seemed to draw Nikita's gaze. His lips were not wide or overly full, but sculpted into the most beautiful coral coloured, albeit sardonic, half-smile she'd ever seen. She could just see the bottoms of the top row his perfect teeth.

" Had your fill of looking at me, mademoiselle? "

Nikita lifted her eyes to the slits in his silken head wrap. She could see long sable coloured lashes through the slits but the colour of his eyes was indiscernible. She couldn't see what colour his hair might be either, as it was covered by the silk scarf tied tightly about his head.

She took a deep breath. " Your hand is bleeding." She used the sleeve of her gown to wipe the stain of his blood away from her cheek.

" It can't be too bad. I think I tore it on something. A loose nail somewhere, mayhaps. Why aren't you raising roof with screams? "

" I told you that I would not do that, sir."

" My, God. What a revelation. A woman who keeps her word."

He seemed very cynical, she thought. Obviously one of those men who did not trust the female of the species. She'd met many such men in her life, her grandfather chief amongst them. " If you would like to remove your glove, I can go and get something to clean that for you?"

He let go what sounded like a sarcastic chuckle. " Really. So you can alert the night watch? No thank you. I'd rather bleed to death."

" You came here to rob the sisters, didn't you? "

" What a brilliant deduction. Yes, that was the idea. I never expected to be disturbed in the middle of it. I guess I'm losing my touch." He crossed his arms and leaned his hip against the window casement, his booted feet at a casual stance. The relaxed pose seemed to highlight his lean, strong build. "Are you a relative of theirs? "

" No. I live here. I am recently come from the country. I am their secretary and companion."

" Companion? I find that hard to believe. A woman of your charms."

The last words, said in a low, husky tone, startled her a little. She knew herself to be totally beguiled. She doubted he meant the words but for some strange reason that mattered little to her. Coming from that beautiful mouth the hackneyed words sent shivers up her spine. She'd heard those very words from other men before and had never been remotely moved to want to kiss the man or be held in his arms

With this man that was all she could think about. Her grandfather was right about her. Deep down she must be a depraved and wicked girl. She bent and lifted the hem of her gown almost to the level of her knees.

Her actions seemed to stagger him. He took in a sharp breath and said: " Mademoiselle, what are you doing there? "

" I am going to see to your hand, of course." Had he thought one compliment was going to get her to take off her gown or something? Men! Down deep they were all the same no matter the package they came wrapped in. " What do you think I'm doing? "

" I'd hate to tell you what I'm thinking at this moment."

She calmly tore off the bottom ruffle of the gown and waved the strip in her hand like a white flag. "Bandages? "

" I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed."

His words made her smile. She walked toward him with her hand outstretched, completely unafraid. " Give me your hand," she ordered him. " Take the glove off first. I'll bind it for you."

" You don't have "

" Nonsense. The damage is already done, isn't it? " She peered down at her exposed feet and ankles and then grinned up at him.

He seemed nonplussed by that, but he took off the glove and extended his hand. She examined it. It was a nice hand with long slender fingers and very clean nails. No hairy paw, thankfully, but an elegant gentleman's hand. It was warm and touching it made her feel a bit light in the head, like when she'd been spun to fast in a swing as a child. It was most disconcerting.

" You've cut this very deeply. You ought to be sure to see to it properly else it might get septic."

" You know about such things, do you? "

" Of course I do. I'm not some city bred chit. I assume that you'll be on your way once I have this cut bound. You'll not be taking the sister's goods or . . . um . . .anything else."

" Anything else? What would that mean? " She could hear the amusement in his tone.

Her heart gave a wee thunk at that question. " I mean. . . I have heard stories about you."

"All lies I assure you. I wouldn't dream of accosting you-- unless you indicate otherwise-- dear lady. I will consider this merely a rest stop."

She laughed. " Are you French? They say you are. I wonder if the accent is fake. Your English syntax is remarkably true. Have they assumed that you are foreign from the calling cards you leave?"

" You've heard about that, too."

" You are all everyone talks about. I hear about you quite often. You know, don't you, that it's only a matter of time before you're caught."

" I don't intend to get caught."

" I surprised you. I could have had a pistol. You could be dead at my feet." The idea of that made Nikita feel most perturbed. Sad as well. It was the strangest thing that she should care at all about this thief.

" This is an anomaly. That's all. I intend to be more careful in the future." He gave her a smile. " I think I needed a small set-back. I was getting a little too cocky."

She swallowed hard over that smile. If only she knew what he really looked like. She did like the sound of his voice, rather husky, the accent a little too thick at times as if he were faking it. She finished wrapping his hand, tearing the fabric at the end of the strip in two so that she could tie it off. " There. All done." She wrapped her hands companionably over his, before she realised what she was doing and yanked them back.

" Thank you. I am most grateful." He examined her handiwork. " This is more the thing."

" Why do you do this? " she asked.

" What? This? Stealing from the ton? Why? Why do you think? " He couldn't get his glove over the bandages so he tucked it into the waistband of his breeches.

" I would like to think that you're a latter day Robin Hood. That you perhaps distribute the ill gotten gains amongst the less fortunate? "

He smiled again. " Think that, if you must."

" Why? Why do you do this? It seems a man like you could do something constructive."

" You have no idea what sort of man I am. It takes a lot of blunt to live in London."

She shrugged. " All depends on how you want to live, I suppose. You could find a rich widow or a bored noble woman to live off, for certain favours, just until you get back on your feet."

He stared at her for a moment, perhaps in shock and then he laughed. " That's rich. I can't believe you'd say that. A girl as innocent looking as you. How come you to even know of such things? "

" I'm not stupid or innocent, sir. I'm from the country, but not naive. I've learned a lot lately. I have heard a few of the ladies at parties talking about the lovers they keep. People tend to talk loudly, as if wallflowers like myself have no ears. People deny it, but they love to be the subject of gossip if it is juicy enough."

" I can never imagine you as a wallflower. You actually think that a man living off a woman is more honourable than stealing? "

" What's the difference between that and an arranged marriage? I mean there are men who marry quite miserable, unattractive women with large doweries and allowances every day. There is nothing seen as bad in that. "

" I suppose I should find myself an unsightly heiress I don't love then, marry her and quit this life of crime."

"You could. I'm sure you have the looks and the charm to get an heiress. Men can do what they like in the world with little compunction. And I didn't say that I thought it honourable to live off a woman. That is your word. My word for it is "understandable ".

" You have definite ideas about society and your place in it, don' you? "

" Of course. I would prefer to hover around the edges of the social sphere. I am not the least avid to be a part of it, yet I would not want to be starving or living in the streets so I force myself to be tolerant. " She frowned over his wound. " This should be cleaned, you know. You'll do that when you get home." It was a command, not a question.

" I will. Tell me what else you have observed about ton society? "

She had not expected his interest. Men rarely listened to what women thought. If a woman opened her mouth and gave an opinion on anything she was called a bluestocking. " Society accepts a lot of things I find intolerable. It deplores some natural acts or transgressions that I find quite easy to forgive. Why do you steal? "

" I steal because it's easy and because they will not miss it. If you must know, I despise these people."

" You're jealous, perhaps. Of what they have? " she asked.

He seemed to stiffen under her scrutiny. " Not so. Like you, and I am assuming this to be the case, I hate their ways, the way they flaunt their wealth, their supposed culture, the way they condemn each other with gossip and censure. They're total buffoons and they deserve someone to make a dupe out of them. I have no remorse about doing this. Do you know that these people will do almost anything to get out of paying bills to tradesmen? It is -How do you say it in English? - insufferable."

"It can be that."

" Some of these rich make their servants buy their own food with their meagre wages and yet their own tables are filled to groaning with food that gets tossed away. They would not think to toss a penny to a sick child on the street, but they will make huge wagers over how quickly a drop of rain will traverse a window pane," the thief denounced.

" The ladies who live here are not like that. I am sure they are charitable with their fellow men. They're most kind hearted. The staff here are very happy and well fed. "

" They are the exception then. I am almost glad now that you stopped me." He said it in a teasing manner.

Nikita bit her lip. " I do hope you stop this soon before you get caught. I would not like to see you killed." While she spoke Nikita was trying to imagine what the rest of his face would be like. Perhaps his eyes were small and his nose too large. Maybe he was bald with a few sparse hairs here and there.

She doubted it. Her heart told her that he was beautiful. Breathtaking.

" I think I shall leave now. May I ask your name? "

" Nikita, sir."

"Nikita. It's a pretty name, like its owner. Thank you for the humanitarian aid. I am most humbly your servant." He picked up her hand and pressed his warm lips to the backs of her fingers. " Nikita, you will allow me some time to get down off the roof before you summon the authorities, won't you? "

" I've no intention of doing that. Just don't return here."

" I vow that I won't. No matter how much I might like to return and bask in your radiant beauty."

She laughed. " I thought better of you before you started with the meaningless flattery."

" It's not flattery," he said softly. " Though I do believe you're the most beautiful woman it's been my pleasure to meet. I am quite serious."

Nikita's heart fluttered in her breast. She told herself silently that she should not become unglued at such blatant sweet talk. " I am far too tall. I have to wear spectacles to see even short distances. I am not the crack at all."

"You are quite the perfect height."

She snorted. " For what? "

He stepped forward. " For me. We meet almost eye to eye, mouth to mouth. A perfect fit." He slipped the spectacles from Nikita's nose and laid them on the table.

She took a jittery breath. He leaned forward, his fingers barely touching her waist. Then he brushed his mouth slowly across hers. Her nipples responded, hardening against the light cambric gown. Something fluttered and warmed deep inside her at the passionate touch of his slightly parted mouth. She drank in the taste of him, the texture of smooth lips and slightly abrasive beard.

The kiss did not last long enough. When it was over he rested his forehead against hers for the briefest time, as if trying to gain some semblance of control.

He pulled away, gave her a nod of his head and slipped like a wraith through the window. She followed, leaning out of it, but the thief of Mayfair had disappeared into thin air. Nikita just stood there for a long time, staring out at the moonlit rooftops, rubbing the backs of the knuckles he had kissed against her tingling lips.

" Miss Nikita, you seem miles away."

" I'm sorry, Gail. Did you say something?" Nikita lifted her head. She'd been studying the pattern on the tablecloth in the kitchen thinking about him. As a result of the encounter she'd had very little sleep the night previous.

" The oddest thing happened. I found blood in the library this morning when I was dusting. On the window sill. I can't think of how it may have gotten there. There were even a few spots of it on the carpet."

" That-um-was my fault. I couldn't sleep last night. The blood was mine, in fact. I thought I'd clean it up today rather than disturb anyone last night."

Gail's fawn brown eyes widened. The others had begun to file in for breakfast, taking their places at the table.

Walter said: " How did you cut yourself, lass ? "

" It wasn't a cut, Walter. Not at all. It was stuffy in the library. I'd been sneezing a lot and when I opened the window I banged my nose rather briskly on the frame. Hence the blood." Nikita felt rather proud of herself at the lie. She was not usually one who could make up lies on the spur of the moment.

" You don't look any the worse for wear, luv," said Mick reaching for bread which he slathered thickly with butter and treacle. " That adorable nose may look a bit more tip-tilted though, miss. Did you 'ear? The thief struck again last night. This time it was Clarges Street. I know a bloke who works there."

" What did he make off with this time? "

" Me friend's mistress's favourite pearls. Seventeenth century baroque, apparently. M' friend was quizzed for over an hour by the Bow Street runners. Wanted to know what he'd seen, where he'd been. Seemed he was in bed with one of the chambermaids at the time. Didn't 'ear a thing."

" Don't be indelicate, Mick," chided George. " There are ladies present."

" He told me they'd be goin' about quizzing everyone in the vicinity. Seems they found a trail of blood in the alley just behind this house leading from the house that was robbed."

On hearing that Nikita suddenly lost her appetite. She set down her napkin and rose from her place after a muttered excuse. " I think I shall go back to my room. I have a slight headache."

" I hope you're not coming down with the ague now that our dear ladies are finally coming out of it," said George.

" I shall be fine. I didn't sleep well last night. That is all it is. "

" Don't forget that the modiste is expecting you today," said Belinda. " It's so kind of the sisters to purchase you a new gown for the Blankenship's ball. I think they could be persuaded into a few new day dresses, too."

" I had forgotten about that. My blue one would have been fine. And I have a few day dresses." They were rather unbecoming shades and she had sewed them herself using outdated patterns that she had tried to smarten a bit. Her sewing was rather abysmal.

" Your wardrobe is awful."

" Belinda! " admonished George. " Miss Nikita cannot help if her gowns are not all the crack. I'm sure her formal wear is quite acceptable."

" For a dowd. And she couldn't be any less of one."

" True enough. You'd be so lovely in the right gown, miss." Gail said with a sigh.

Nikita looked from face to face, a little bewildered. Clothes meant very little to her. She never cared if she stepped on her hems and her gloves were often lost or stained. Her hat feathers were always limp. She just did not have the time or reason to care.

" So we all agree? " Belinda raised her nose. " I'm not sorry to say that your evening clothes are a disgrace, miss. You are far too beautiful to be so poorly set out. I tell you for your own good. Even a servant wouldn't wear the likes of that dress you planned to wear to the ball. Tell them that you'd look best in deep midnight blue. Or rosy pink. I know pastels are the rage at the moment, but we'll ask for a dark colour."

" And I'll do your hair this time, Miss Nikita," said Gail. " I'm ever so good with hair." For this show of kindness Gail received admiring glances from both young Seymour and Greg.

' I hope the ladies will be feeling well enough to attend."

" They seemed much better when I checked them this morning," said Belinda.

Nikita was leaving the modiste's with Belinda when she heard Belinda's gasp. " Oh look, miss."

She peered across the street. A group of four people was entering Gunther's salon, frequented by the ton for the ices and their fine coffee and cakes. " Do you know them? "

" That's Lord Paul Northwood and his wife, Madeline. They were friends of my former employer The Earl of Claridge. They're haut ton, miss."

" You sound as if you don't think much of them."

" I don't know, miss. It's not for me to say, now is it? "

" But you will say it anyway."

She smiled. " Of course. My dear mama always told me I was a gossip. Since the cradle. Now, if you were to tell me your secrets, mind, I'd never reveal them."

" I'm certain you would not."

" I'd do my best to avoid Claridge and his ilk, miss."

" I'll never have any reason to come in contact with the fellow. What have you heard about the Northwoods? "

" They're not the sort one would want to work for. I don't know them as well as I do Claridge but I'd say that like birds flock together. Perry Bauer, the Earl of Claridge, is a bad sort. I wouldn't even like to tell you about the people who came in and out of his house. Sometimes it was all very mysterious. He was always taking clandestine trips. He married his wife for her money and ran the estates she inherited to the ground. She died in a carriage accident. Some said the wheel had been tampered with."

"Are you serious? "

" It happens, miss. Things like that are dropped and never investigated for enough blunt."

" What's Lord Northwood like? "

" I don't know him well. I would guess that he's typical ton. He married for the promise of money. Lord Northwood shares Perry Bauer's proclivities for wenching and gambling, though I must say these rumours do not circulate out loud too often in society because they are very haut ton, though everyone knows the "on dits" and pretend they do not. They are deemed quite desirable. He, especially. Being a man with a title allows certain rights."

" The secret will stay with me. "

" Lady Northwood turns her cheek as do most wives. Actually I think she's probably sleeping with any number of men now under her husband's nose, with or without his say so," Belinda said with a sniff. " She's been married before. Several times. They call her the black widow. That girl is her daughter from a previous marriage. I've not seen the girl, but they say she's beautiful. She's also said to have a fiery temper. They say she killed a dog once."

" How? Why!"

" I think it pissed on her. She stomped it with her dainty foot. I heard that from the maid of a girl who'd had her beau stolen right from under her nose by Abby."

" She looked rather docile. Perhaps it was jealous gossip. What is her full name?"

" I think her name is Lady Abigail Chesterfield. She'd be about nineteen. They're hoping to marry her off this year. Lady Madeline's mother is the dowager dutchess, Adrienne Wentwirth " Belinda broke off, realization dawning on her attractive face. " That's your name! Is she Are you related to her? "

"She is my grandmother. She did not acknowledge me."

Abigail nearly fell over. Her cheeks were bright red. Nikita almost laughed. It was the first time the woman had ever seemed taken aback " I'm sorry, miss. I didn't mean Should I call you, Lady Nikita? " She was almost teasing.

" It's not a problem, Belinda. And no! I'll never be called that! "

" She's very in with the ladies at Almacks, is the dutchess. She's never had a problem getting vouchers. Lady Chloe and Lady Olivia know her very well. Have you met her? "

" She did not want to meet me when I came into the world. I doubt she'd want to now."

" She's a nice sort, really. Mick was her footman at one time. Never had a complaint about her. Did you know her estate is not entailed? Never has been since Tudor times. "

" Is that so? She can pass it on to anyone?"

" Even you, miss. Being that you're her granddaughter. It's under her own discretion who inherits. Of course, most say it will pass on to Lady Northwood. It's disgusting really. I know that's all she and Northwood want. The two of them are power mad. I think they'll run it into the ground."

Nikita squinted across the street. Without her specs he could just make out the woman and her daughter. Her aunt and cousin. How strange to see them. She hadn't known of them at all. They were beautifully dressed, but their faces were obscured by the ridiculously long brimmed bonnets currently in fashion.

There was a man with them. He was tallish and well built, impeccably dressed, but she couldn't make out his face without her spectacles. The sun glinted off the reddish highlights of his tousled, chestnut brown hair. He held his curly brimmed beaver hat in his gloved hand. He seemed oddly familiar to her, but she couldn't have placed from where she knew him.

For a few seconds he had stopped in his tracks and stared across the street at them. At her, for a fact. Then he quickly turned his head and went into the building with the green awnings.

" Who is the man with them? "

" I think he's Lady Abby's intended. Italian, so they say, but not swarthy at all. I think he's called the Count of Napoli. Something like that. I thought he'd be dark and olive skinned but he's fair, and they say his eyes are a smoky green. My goodness, he's a lovely looking bloke. I'd take him to my bed in a minute. And don't tell Walter that."

" I won't." She was, as ever, a little shocked by Belinda's open manner. She liked it, though. Nikita wondered what colour her thief's eyes were. Warm brown? Light blue? Mysterious green? She longed to share the story of the encounter in the library with the vivacious Belinda, but she did not dare. "Some Italians are fair skinned and blue eyed, I've heard. "

" This is his first entire season here. No one really knows all the on dits on him yet. He's rather mysterious. "

" How do you know him? "

" From the Warwick's ball. Were you there? I don't recall. Lady Caroline Lamb announced to all and sundry that she wanted to sleep with the magnificent Italian before the week was out."

" I wasn't here yet." She'd liked to have been there, not that she'd have seen or heard much off in the corner where they stuck the drabs.

" That's where he was first seen by the ton. I was there to help the Warwick's maid in the powder room. The women were raving about him, the different cut of his clothes, his muscles, his green eyes, his hair. And his accent. It was very husky and attractive, so they said. One of the ladies said she almost had "the petite mort" when he whispered in her ear."

Nikita's eyes widened. She knew clinically what an orgasm was from her readings, but was not quite certain exactly what happened or how it could happen just being next to a man. " My goodness."

" They say he is more beautiful than Byron. And unlike Byron there is no question of the sex the count prefers."

" Belinda!" Nikita said. " Really? Is that true? About Byron?"

" So the lady's nephew Freddy told Walter.You've not met Freddie yet have you? There's a fop. He's been sent off to Scotland for trying to bugger the footmen again. Poor little Seymour--"

" Belinda!"

" It's true. Walter told me. He never lies."

Nikita giggled. " Oh, lord. Tell me more of this Count."

" He's said to have several villas in Italy and a castle, too, I think. In France? I think that they said his mother was French."

" French?" Nikita's heart began to race in her breast.

It was just then that the odious Percy Snow came out of Gunthers. Nikita turned quickly and hissed at Belinda. " I know that fellow in the hideous purple coat and green vest. I do not wish for him to see me. Shall we hurry? " She grasped Belinda's arm and dragged her down the street, telling her all about her coach companion with the dashing wardrobe and indescribable body odour. The two of them were collapsing in giggles as they walked down the street.

A Bow Street Runner was waiting in the parlour when they returned. Nikita's heart skipped a beat. Had the thief been seen coming into the house? Or had they followed a trail of blood right up to the library window?

The Bow Street Runner was young and handsome in a rumpled way. He introduced himself as constable Marcus O' Brien. About Nikita's height and around the age of thirty-five, he had a wily, street-weary look about him. His hair was longish and unkempt, not the deliberately backswept style of the Windswept as Byron sported. It just looked like he'd been tearing at it with impatient fingers. His neck cloth was askew and may have had a smear of jam. Nikita steeled herself to smile into his sharp gray- blue eyes and asked if he cared for any tea.

" Why, thank you. That is most thoughtful, Miss Wentwirth. I would be pleased to take a cup. Do you think I might have some bread and butter? I've missed my nuncheon?"

She'd been afraid of that. It meant he'd be staying longer. " I shall tell George to have Walter prepare something for you."

After the tea was delivered by George and poured he started to question her. She watched with interest as he added six pieces of sugar to his china cup. He said: " The butler said you had been up and looking out the library window. That room looks out over the lane."

" Yes," said Nikita pleasantly. " I believe that it does. What did the man take? "

" A pearl necklace, I believe, with rubies in the clasp. A very valuable French antique. The owner had recently acquired it. It was his wife's favourite piece. She'd so distraught she has taken to her bed."

" The poor soul." Actually Nikita didn't feel sorry for her at all. People shouldn't feel distraught to the point of being bedridden over pearl necklaces.

" Yes," he said, taking sip of tea and then sighing. " This is very good. What blend is this? "

" I'll ask George where he buys it, if you wish. One necklace. Was that all he took? " she asked impatiently.

The detective looked up at Nikita and frowned. " I believe so." He stuffed a piece of ham into his mouth.

" Doesn't that seem a bit strange, Constable O'Brien? One French piece missing. A single necklace. I'm sure there was a wealth of valuables to be had in the victim's safe."

" I think there were many fine pieces in the safe. Some were left behind."

" Why didn't the thief take those as well? I'm sure most thieves would want to take everything they could get their hands on."

" Perhaps he was startled by a noise," suggested O'Brien. " Perhaps he's a most discerning thief. It's likely that he has a market for such valuable French pieces back in his home country. There must be people there most willing to buy them. It would be difficult for him to fence such property here."

" Fence? What does that mean?"

" It's a term we detectives use," he said proudly. " It refers to how the thieves get rid of the goods. Comes from trading over the fence."

" I see. How very interesting," she murmured. " Have you looked into the connection between the pieces? Did they perhaps come from the same original source? "

" I've not thought a little about that, but it's not a likely factor. Many of these people buy through brokers or at auction. Your name is well known here in Mayfair. Are you, by any chance, distantly related to the Dutchess of Jarvis, Miss Wentwirth? "

" Yes. But not distantly actually. Adrienne Wentwirth is my grandmother."

" But you work for a living as a companion. Why is that? " He had a disappointed look on his handsome face. She wondered for a moment if he felt that it put her out of his league.

" My father was her second son and youngest child. He was estranged from her. I have never met her." She was getting a little tired of explaining.

The two chatted for a time. Nikita felt rather pleased with herself for leading the runner away from the topic of the Thief of Mayfair. They instead began a lively discussion of highwaymen. The Bow Street Runners had begun in the eighteenth century as a force to reckon with the scourge. Nikita, herself, had always found the idea of highwaymen extremely romantic. She had written many a story about the black clad bandits of the coach road. They were becoming scarcer now.

By the time he announced that he had to leave Nikita was sorry she could not have gleaned more information for her writings.

" Do be careful of him, should he ever break in here, Miss Wentwirth. I'm certain that he's dangerous."

" Has he ever hurt anyone? "

" Not that I know of, but there is always a first time, eh? I wouldn't want to see you hurt. "

When he was gone Nikita took a deep, cleansing breath and went upstairs to see the ladies. They were sitting up in bed and eating bon bons. They announced, cheerfully, that they would be quite ready to attend the ball on Thursday.

" How happy I am that you're well." she told Lady Chloe and Lady Olivia.

Olivia smiled at her. She was feeding her dog Horace bits of bon bon. Nikita wanted to tell her that the treats weren't good for the tiny dog, but Horace, a terrier with black spots, more of a country dog than a city one, seemed to have a stomach of cast iron. But he was prone to leaving stools behind the furniture in the morning room. George was forever in a dither about it.

" Do you have your gown, Nikita? "

" Yes." She blushed. " I let Belinda choose for me. I'm not at all certain about the neckline. It's a trifle indecent. And the colour is a bit extreme, I think. "

" I'm sure it's all the crack," said Chloe. " You'll look lovely."

" Companions do not have to look lovely. I suppose I could always wear a fischu tucked into the bodice."

" You'll do no such thing."

Nikita smiled, bending to retrieve a discarded shawl.

" You'll need jewels."

" I have my mother's locket. I'm afraid I don't own any jewels. Are you forgetting that I'm just there to see to your comfort? Not to dance or to catch a beau."

" That is the sad thing. You should be the belle, my girl. I wish that your grandmother--"

" We'll not speak of that. I've asked you not to speak to her of me." She gave the older women a warm smile that softened the terse words. " I don't need to be the belle. And I do not need the fancy accoutrements. I'd be fearful of losing your fine jewels."

" We have more than enough jewellery. All Livvi does is buy more. There is the most divine blue diamond necklace. A choker. Neither Livvi or I can get it around our fat necks, you see. And we're dying to show it off. Livvi thought we could have it made larger "

" But the jeweller told us that it would destroy the value." Olivia put in.

" It would match your eyes and since we bought it only last year, no one will have seen it yet. Our broker bought it from a French fellow. Said it had belonged to a French countess. An antique that had been in the family for generations."

Nikita's head snapped up. " A French piece? "

" Yes. The fellow who sold it said it was French. Said it was depicted in a seventeenth century painting."

Nikita folded the shawl thoughtfully. That was why he had been here. Maybe he would come back.

" Will you wear it? "

Nikita sighed. It might be nice to look pretty for a change. " I'll consider it. I'm not the type to be tricked out in jewellery. You're both so generous, though, I feel almost like crying."

Two days later, an hour before the ball, Nikita stared at herself in the cheval mirror.

It was a stare of sheer horror. Half her breasts were hanging out.

" I can't wear this. It's positively indecent."

" It is not!" cried Belinda. " What do you think, Gail? "

" I think that it's lovely. The blue colour was made for you, miss."

The dress was blue, simply cut with an Empire waist. There were no ruffles or ribbons, just flowing lines and fine tissue silk over a matching chemise in a slightly darker tone. Her shoes were a la Grecque, the gold satin ribbons lacing up her slender calves.

" You can practically see my nipples."

Belinda laughed. " Well, you have pretty breasts. Show them. Lady Caroline Lamb rouges her nipples so they'll show even more."

" She doesn't. Does she? " Nikita could feel her cheeks going hot. She was no prude but this was ridiculous. " That's absolutely disgusting."

" Her lovers don't think so, " stated Belinda. " She damps her dresses as well. One layer of muslin, damp as a sheet on washday. You can see everything. She shaves her pubic hair off. She thinks that's being discrete. Wouldn't want to cast dark, lumpy shadows. "

Gail looked ready to faint. Nikita burst out laughing.

" The Egyptians did it. Shaved all over. And Egyptian motifs are all the crack."

"Oh, my lord, Belinda. I am not going to be able to look at any of the women this evening thinking that they might have done that! I've heard of damping dresses. In winter, even. No wonder women die of fevers." Nikita tugged the bodice a little higher. " My grandfather, the vicar, would have apoplexy if he saw me like this. He would have apoplexy if he could hear this discussion. Are you sure I can't leave my shawl on? "

" Never. And with that French choker, you are going to be an Incomparable. A diamond of the first water, miss."

The Blankenship's ball was one of the first and most important of the London Season. Lady Sally Jersey and the other patron esses of Almacks would be in attendance checking the new crop of debutants, deciding who was gauche and who would take. The beaus and the rakes were there as well, hoping to become linked with the greatest beauties of the season. This was after all a marriage mart.

Nikita had received some frosty stares, mostly from the other companions and matrons who knew that she had no real right to be wearing fine jewellery and a gown with such an indecently cut bodice. She was calling deliberate attention to herself and her Amazonian stature.

Oh, why had she let Belinda talk her out of the concealing piece of lace. She surreptitiously tugged the bodice up for what must have been the hundredth time. One of her nipples had already peeped out when she got out of the carriage. She couldn't lean her neck down too far because the high diamond collar would choke her and the pins that secured her wilfully stick straight hair into a Grecian knot were already threatening to spring from her head, fly through the air and poke out someone's eye.

She told herself it was a good thing that she could not have permission to dance. She was feeling quite miserable for someone pronounced by the admiring staff at the townhouse as an Incomparable. Why, Mick even seemed to have tears in his eyes when her saw her. That could only have been because George had made such a fine speech when he presented her with the orchid wrist posy that the men of the house had all pitched in to buy for her. They were really all too dear to her already.

Thank God that Belinda had not piped in and told them all that such things as orchid corsages were passe.

Most of the ton beauties were draped in diaphanous clouds of white muslin, some indeed shockingly revealing. They were also draped in jewels. So many, in fact, that she doubted there were any left in London for the Thief of Mayfair to steal.

Belinda would kill her if she could see her standing behind the potted ferns like a coward. She swallowed hard in breathless wonder at the sights unfolding before her. She watched the milling crowds, waiting the start of the dancing, the tittering females in little groups, the males preening like strutting peacocks. The place was a veritable crush of bodies and the smell was a little overwhelming. Like dirty socks, perfume and powder, sweaty armpits and unwashed hair.

Nikita wrinkled her nose.

One of the ladies near her suddenly piped up in excitement. " Oh, La. There he is. The Count. The Italian count."

" Ah, yes. Isn't he all the crack? Look at him. He's dressed so differently than the others. Beau Brummel will be wanting to copy that suit. Mark my words, I think he's the only man here tonight wearing trousers. Black trousers! How daring he is! It's as if he cares nothing for fashion and yet he sets it."

Nikita slipped her spectacles up her nose and looked out at the floor. It was the man from the street of the other day. He was the most intriguing combination of angel and rake. There was something about the way he walked, like a sleek carnal beast. The sea of people parted for him.

She had to admit that he was beautiful, in his way. His colouring was exquisite, his features not conventional, but handsome in the way they were combined. His profile was a masculine revelation, something one would see in one of the frescoes at Bath. Sculpted, strong, masterful. She didn't think that he was as well built as the thief of Mayfair, perhaps a little thinner. No one could quite come close to the thief. He dwelled in Nikita's mind's eye as a paragon of masculinity. No one would ever quite match him.

Of course she was not saying that he was the sort of man she ought to admire. Far from it. But he was the first man who had ever stirred her senses like that and the first one to kiss her.

This Italian count looked to be a rogue. His mouth was different, the lips thinner than her thief's. She was quite sure of it. He was unsmiling, terribly serious looking, as if he carried the weight of the world. Not that those wide shoulders couldn't support the weight quite well. What did he have to look so world-weary about?

Planning his latest seduction, she supposed. It was a serious matter with these Corinthians. She doubted he had any greater interest than seduction. The way he moved was so mesmerising, he ought to have women falling at his feet any second. She watched, her breath catching a little as he swept his loose chestnut coloured curls back from his face with a careless sweep of a gloved hand.

Why in God's name would that happen?

Why would looking at him make her stomach flutter?

" There you are, my love."

The voice did not register as directed to her. She was lost in staring at the spectacular form of the count when a hand closed over her wrist, crushing the tender, white orchid.

Nikita gasped aloud in protest. " Have care, sir! Why are you mishandling me in such a way?"

A Corinthian with breath that reeked of spirits was sticking his face inches from her own. " You promised to meet me. Where the bloody hell have you been, you little witch? "

Nikita stared at him, aghast. She'd never laid eyes on the man. " I beg your pardon, sir. You have mistaken me for someone else. We've not met before. "

He moved his hands to grasp her arms above the elbows, pressing the pliant flesh. " Don't be a bitch, Abby. I hate these games you play."

Nikita tried to jerk her arms from his grasp. People were staring now. " I'm sorry. I don't know you."

The man looked her up and down. " When the hell did you bloody grow taller than me? Lord, have I shrunk? "

" I haven't grown. I am not the woman you seek." She angrily pushed her spectacles up her nose.

" When did you take to wearing those? "

" She's not the woman you seek," said a faintly accented voice. " Leave her or consider yourself called out, Dandridge."

Nikita looked behind her shoulder, directly into the smoky green eyes of the Italian count.

Nikita watched in stunned silence as her abuser paled and scurried off with muttered apologies and his tail between his legs.

" Are you alright? Did he hurt you? "

" Yes." Staring into his thickly lashed green eyes was the most disconcerting experience she'd ever had. Quite rivalling the nighttime encounter with the thief of Mayfair. My goodness, he was handsome. He even smelled good. Clean. Like musky, morning rain. She could feel her blood singing through her veins at his nearness.

He seemed to know every thought she was having. His smile was tight but knowing.

Goodness, she thought, I'm wishing I could kiss him. I must be some sort of sensualist. Else she would never be attracted to two such disreputable men in the space of a few days. Her grandfather would have her down on her knees praying for the redemption of her soul.

" Yes, to what? " he said, likely thinking now that she was a lack wit.

" Pardon me? Yes, to...? Oh! No, sir. He didn't hurt me. I'm only surprised. That's all. He mistook me for another woman, I think. People do that sometimes."

" Actually you're very different from her."

" Who? "

" Abigail."

" Oh, yes. I'm told we look alike."

" It's uncanny," he said. " And yet you're nothing alike at all."

" She's your intended, is she not? " She dared to look directly into that marvellously handsome face.

He gave her a slight smile and nodded. " So they say. You look pale to me after that ordeal. Let me take you for a stroll on the terrace." He leaned a little closer to her. " I think that you ought to pull your bodice up a little. I wouldn't want any other man allowed the lucky eyeful I'm getting now. Things may have become a little askew in the struggle."

Nikita looked down at her breasts. They had, indeed, been dislodged a little further from their moorings in the tussle. She felt her cheeks go hot and reached to tuck in and tug up her bodice. He was not gentleman enough to avert his eyes and she could not turn because his body afforded her a screen of privacy.

" Damn! I hate fashion. It's most embarrassing. Makes me think of an armful of lively puppies struggling to get free. I never thought I had this much. " She muttered that before she remembered that he was listening.

He smiled at her, his beautiful eyes crinkling at the corners.

She swallowed hard and tried to sound offended. " You really didn't have to watch."

"It's the Italian in me. When we are in the presence of a beautiful lady we always use all of our senses. I find you English to be most repressed. My apologies."

She tried not to be flattered but she was. " I apologise, too. I'm from the country and not so aware as I'd hoped of current English morals and customs, let alone those of foreigners. I am in a trying state."

" On the contrary, you're most beguiling. Shall we? " He offered her his arm.

She hesitated for a moment. People were staring at them. Speculating as to where he was taking her, no doubt. About a million eyes bored into her, or so it appeared to her agitated mind. He squeezed her arm in reassurance. It seemed a kind gesture. She looked at his perfect profile. They were of a height, but he was so very imposing, the aura of power he held made him seem large and steady. A veritable brick. Maybe it was just the impressive width of his shoulders.

She wanted to ask him a million questions. They were flitting around her mind like giddy fairies in a garden.

Like: Did you sleep with Lady Caroline Lamb?

What in God's name do you see in a girl with a temper harsh enough to hurt a helpless animal?

Do you care that she dallies with other men? Don't you aspire to one true, perfect love?

Do you find me attractive? Or is it just my similarity to her?

" What's your name, cara ? " he asked.

She started. " Nikita."

" No last name? Are you giving me permission to call you by your first name? "

" Nikta Wentwirth,' she blurted without thinking.

He stared at her for a moment. " Wentwirth? Are you related to the dutchess? "

" My father was Lord Nicholas Wentwirth," she said with a frown.

" I see. You resemble him. I looked at his portrait just the other day. Your grandmother is here at the ball tonight, Miss Wentwirth."

Nikita's heart began to thump. " I had heard. I had hoped to avoid her," She tried to change the subject. " First names are fine. You may call me Nikita, if you wish. Is that too fast of me? "

" No. Not at all. My name is Michael. Michaelangelo da Francisini."

" You must have had a time getting your lips around that as a little boy."

" I did. Especially when I lost my teeth in a fall at four." He gave her a genuine grin, exposing teeth that would be the envy of any ton member. Most of the ton had terrible teeth. A few so called desirable bucks wore false ones that fell out if they laughed.

Nikita felt her insides melt at that smile. He was far too attractive. This was far to intense. She could not do this. And people were staring. She'd made a mistake but it was not too late to mend it. " You don't really have to escort me any further, sir. I see the French doors now. Everyone is going to get the wrong idea. I've not wish to be the subject of gossip amongst the ton. You have been most kind "

" I don't worry about ton gossip."

" But you will be forgiven anything because you are who you are. I will not be. They do nothing but gossip about you. Did you know that? "

" What do they say? " he asked. She got the idea that he was amused.

" Most of it is unrepeatable."

" Do tell. You have me intrigued."

She took a deep breath. " A lot of it's about Lady Caroline Lamb. About her having chosen you as a paramour."

" Oh, that. Well, she's vastly overrated as a lover. It was boring."

There was the most horrible picture of them trysting in Nikita's mind. It made her feel rather ill. Hot and breathless. Nikita took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, praying the puppies were sleeping. She pulled her arm from his grasp. " I do thank you. I'll be fine from here."

" My comment offended? I do forget that I am not at home at times. The English are most absurd. I assumed you to be like your grandmother. She is a most unusual lady. I value her sense of adventure and fun very highly."