"You think she'd switch to you instead? That's awfully fickle. Why would you pick someone so capricious?"

"I'm very rich, and your cousin isn't. A female like Miss Smithwaite doesn't need to be very adept at mathematics to figure out the consequences that such a situation can produce."

Georgina stared up at him, and he coolly stared back.

Throughout their brief acquaintance, she hadn't wanted to believe his story about Miles and the foreclosure, but with a sinking heart, reality settled in.

"You're not lying, are you?" she asked.

"About what? About Miles and Kirkwood? No. Why would I?"

"But...if you own everything, what are we to do?"

"What would you like to do? I'm not a cruel man. If you could wrangle any conclusion for yourself, what would it be?"

"Could we buy it back from you?"

"Buy it...back?" He looked stunned, and he laughed. "No."

She must have seemed particularly glum because he moved very close and laid a comforting hand on her waist. She was so distressed that she didn't shake him off.

"Why would you care what happens to Miles?" he said.

"He's family, and this is my home."

"I have it on good authority that you've kept him afloat for years, that it's all been your diligent effort that has held things together."

"Where did you hear that?"

"From the servants. Where would you suppose?"

"Maybe I should remind them to be more discreet."

"They're not your servants to order about."

"They are-until Miles tells me differently."

He smiled, but it was a smile of commiseration, like an older brother learning that she'd just had her heart broken by an unworthy beau.

"What if I told you that you could remain at Kirkwood after the others depart?"

"Remain in what position?"

"Well, you couldn't be my estate agent. I've offered the post to Kit Roxbury."

The announcement was like a knife in the chest. If he'd had a real knife, if he'd stabbed her with it, she couldn't have felt anymore wounded.

"It's not his job," she complained. "It's mine, and I'm extremely capable. You've admitted that I am. You can't give it to him."

"I already have. You could stay on though-but in another role. We could probably devise an acceptable arrangement."

"What are you talking about?"

To her astonishment, he leaned down and brushed his lips to hers in a very light, very brief kiss. She hadn't expected it, hadn't seen it coming, and it occurred so quickly that she didn't react.

"You're very pretty, Miss Fogarty," he murmured as he had out on the road.

The timbre in his voice shocked her. So did his sudden regard. He was displaying a great deal of tenderness and masculine attention, as if he was smitten, as if he'd like a much more intimate association.

"I have no idea why you'd say that to me."

"Don't you?"

"No."

He wedged her into the balustrade so his body was pressed to hers in a way that was thrilling and disturbing. She put her palms on his chest and eased him back.

"Why couldn't I work for you?" she asked. "I've been a terrific estate agent for Miles. Let me prove myself to you."

He smiled again, and this time he was more cocky, more preening. "I might permit you to work for me, but it wouldn't be as my estate agent."

"In what capacity then?"

"You know in what capacity."

His lazy gaze wandered down her torso, and because she'd had so few amorous experiences, he was able to meander to her toes and back up before it dawned on her what he was proposing.

Her jaw dropped. "You're requesting an...illicit liaison?"

"Yes."

She'd never been more scandalized. "Why would you?"

"You won't have many options after I boot the Marshalls out of here, and a woman like you only has one thing to offer to a man like me."

"An affair? You're suggesting I engage in an affair?"

"Why not? As I mentioned, you have no options, and it would certainly liven up this godforsaken place."

"You think I'd be amenable? Why would you assume so?"

"I've always found that when a person is desperate, when a person doesn't have any choices, many deplorable deeds become palatable. Even an affair with a rogue like me."

Her ears were ringing, her pulse racing. She was astounded and insulted and enraged.

Rendered speechless, she yearned to hurl a hundred slurs as to his debauched character, but instead she slapped him as hard as she could. Then she whirled and ran, and she didn't stop running until she was in her room, the key firmly spun in the lock.

She staggered into her bedchamber and sat on the bed. She dawdled in the quiet and the dark, tears of indignation wetting her cheeks as she tried to decide what to do.

Could her life possibly get any more horrid than it already was?

Damian at 13...

I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that."

"It's my fault."

"We've agreed a hundred times that it was so shut the hell up, would you?"

Damian and Kit were roped together, their wrists tied, linking them to a string of boys who'd been arrested the prior few days. They were being led into the courtroom, and Damian was pretending not to care about any of it. And he didn't. Not really.

He was an experienced criminal, but it was always possible he'd be caught. It was part and parcel of the path he'd chosen, almost a badge of honor among thieves to have been captured, to serve his sentence and come out hale and alive and stronger than when he'd gone in.

He was simply irked that Kit had brought him to ruin. If Damian had never been kind to Kit, he'd still be doing what he did best, which was making Michael Scott richer than ever.

But Kit had never taken to the felon's life. He'd studied his lessons, but deep down, he'd never embraced the deviant tendencies necessary to thrive. He felt guilty and hesitated.

That hesitation had finally ended their lucky streak. Kit had delayed a second too long and had been seized by the man whose pocket he'd been picking. Damian's foolish move was in wavering too, trying to pull Kit to safety. They'd both wound up being nabbed.

He glanced out into the seats, and up in the balcony Michael was watching the proceedings. Damian shrugged, and Michael shrugged too.

"I'm sorry," Kit said again.

"Shut up!"

"You two!" a guard barked, and he whacked Damian with a thick baton. "No talking."

Damian had no patience for any idiot who presumed they could boss him. The world wasn't a fair place, and he wasn't about to have a dolt ordering him to behave. He'd spent too much time with Michael, learning his ways, adopting his attitudes.

At being hit so hard, he was incensed. He came around swinging, grabbing for the man's club, but it simply produced a series of wild blows that crumpled him to his knees and opened a cut on his forehead. His collapse yanked several other prisoners down with him, causing people to trip and tangle so they grumbled and chastised and told him to knock it off.

Kit lifted him to his feet and wiped the blood away, but Damian shook him off. He was so bitterly angry, and he steadied his breathing, hating to let others see him so out of control. He wanted to be quiet and still, like a snake about to strike. He wanted to be so small and so invisible that no one would notice him until it was too late, but his temper always overwhelmed him and wrecked his plans.

The prisoners straightened as a clerk entered and pounded a gavel. The audience stood, and after a lengthy wait, a fat, dour judge trudged in. He appeared hot and grouchy, as if his gout was flaring.

A barrister hustled down the line, asking names, asking for hurried details about arrests, about accusations. Most claimed to have no idea what had happened, why they'd been swept up, and Damian supposed it was true. The law was a hammer that cracked down without warning. Or maybe it was more like a shovel, scooping up the poor and clueless.

The barrister halted by Damian and whispered, "Michael Scott hired me."

"That was generous of him," Damian said.

"I'll try my best," the lawyer said, "but don't get your hopes up."

Damian scoffed. "I never get my hopes up."

The clerk began calling cases, and the prisoners were dragged before the judge. He was either very cruel or having a bad day. Everyone was sentenced to jail, and mostly the crimes involved poverty: stealing a loaf of bread, taking an apple from a cart, failing to pay rent on the date it was due.

One year. Two years. Six months. People were quickly dispatched to their fates.

Finally it was Damian's turn. Kit was brought forward too, along with several other boys who'd been at the back. They bristled and shoved, the younger ones looking bewildered, the older ones cynical, exhausted, and hungry.

The prosecutor announced a litany of charges, poverty charges again, Damian thought. Pick pocketing. Petty theft. Fighting. General mischief.

"Your Honor, if I may..." Damian's lawyer attempted to say.

"No, counselor, you may not," the judge snapped.

Despite the judge's remark, the lawyer said, "My clients, Mr. Drummond and Mr. Roxbury, are good boys, Your Honor."

"The allegation is pick pocketing."

"Yes, Your Honor, but they were starving."

"It's no excuse-and you know it!"

The judge studied Damian, trying to cow him with his high position, his power and authority, but Damian refused to be cowed by any adult. He stared back as if daring the judge to react, and he got his wish.

"I'm ruling these boys to be incorrigibles. All of them."

"Judge, please..." his lawyer said.

"My goal is to rid the streets of vermin."

"Judge!"

"Be silent, counselor," the judge shouted. "Seven years hard labor."

Courtrooms were like an evening at the theater. Spectators attended to be entertained. Some gasped, some snickered, some laughed, some clapped.

"Seven years, Judge?" the lawyer asked. "Really?"

"Botany Bay!" The judge banged the gavel down. "Next case!"

Damian was proud that he didn't flinch. He'd been expecting a few months at Newgate Prison. Michael could have smuggled in food and blankets, could have bribed guards to protect him and make his incarceration tolerable.

But Botany Bay...

"I'm sorry, Damian," the lawyer murmured.