"Release me," she commanded.

"No."

"You're insane, Mr. Drummond, and you're scaring me."

"I am not. I don't frighten you."

Her blue eyes flashing daggers, she considered his comment then confessed, "You're correct. You don't frighten me, but you annoy me to Heaven and back."

"Is Augusta kind to you? Is Miles?"

"Kind enough."

"How was it that you came to live here?"

"My parents died so I was orphaned. My Uncle Edward brought me to Kirkwood, and I've always been grateful."

"Loyal, too?"

"Yes. Absurdly loyal."

"Good. I like a loyal person. With my taking possession of the property-"

"Dream big, Mr. Drummond. I'm positive you'll never possess Kirkwood."

"If I toss you out on the road, where will you go?"

"Where will I...go?"

"Yes. My fight isn't with you, and you shouldn't be punished for Miles's sins."

She scoffed. "I'm certain this will be a great surprise to you, Mr. Drummond, but I've been punished for other people's sins since the day I was born."

"Have you?"

"Yes, now give me that blasted comb."

He was still holding it, and she yanked it away. Then she kicked him in the shin, shoved him, and marched off. He moved away because he felt like it, not because she'd forced him to. She dashed to the bedchamber, to the sitting room beyond, and she spun the knob on the door so she could huff out, but she'd forgotten it was locked.

"Ooh," she fumed as she whirled on him. "Open it. Right now!"

He sauntered over and stuck in the key.

"Have a nice party, Miss Fogarty," he said.

"Don't you dare butt your nose in and ruin everything."

"I won't."

"I'm serious. This stupid night cost us a fortune. I won't have you wrecking it by upsetting the neighbors or fueling gossip about you and Miles."

"I won't," he repeated.

"You're a menace."

"I am. I admit it."

"You're a...cur, a swine, a...a...reprobate."

The tepid insult made him laugh. "Is that the best you can do?"

"I'd use a few more descriptive nouns, but I'm too much of a lady to voice them."

"Sure you are, Miss Fogarty. Sure you are."

"And since I absolutely hate you, I won't waste my breath." She pushed him away. "I have guests so go bother someone else."

She stomped out, and he leaned on the doorframe, watching her shapely backside swish against her skirt as she headed down the hall and disappeared.

He grinned.

He hadn't expected to be entertained at Kirkwood, hadn't expected to enjoy his sojourn or be amused by the occupants. But perhaps-just perhaps-his stay wouldn't be so bad after all.

He followed her, determined to stand in the front foyer and greet every guest that arrived. She'd warned him not to, and he'd said he wouldn't, but he'd never listened to women in the past.

Why start now?

Damian at 12...

It's easy."

"It doesn't look easy."

"Watch me."

Damian stepped into the crowd of rich nobs heading into the theater. His years of living on the streets, of being cold and hungry, had left him short and slender. He'd barely grown an inch since he'd departed Kirkwood with his grandfather.

Because of his small stature, people scarcely noticed him, and they certainly weren't wary of him. He was slippery as an eel too. He could flit and duck and run away with no chance he'd ever be caught.

He slid his fingers into the first coat he saw, withdrew the man's purse, and disappeared into the surging horde before the fellow could turn around. He fled into the nearest alley, winding through walkways and tunnels to where his new companion, Kit Roxbury, waited for him to arrive.

He'd like to say Kit was his friend, but he was simply a stray urchin Damian had met, a boy in the same dire straits, and Damian would never allow him to be more than that.

Damian had hardened his heart. He'd witnessed firsthand the cruelty human beings could perpetrate on the innocent and unsuspecting. He'd witnessed how fast things could change, and he would never be complacent, would never bond or rely on anyone.

He tried to give the purse to Kit, but Kit wouldn't take it.

"Stealing is wrong," he insisted.

"Starvation is wrong too," Damian countered. "My grandfather would hate to see where circumstances have led me, but he's not here and neither is your mother."

"If I become a thief, she'd be ashamed of me."

"Maybe, maybe not. Maybe she'd want you to survive and make something of yourself. Besides, she's in Heaven so her opinion doesn't matter, and she definitely can't help you."

Kit looked down at the ground, his expression grim and sad, and Damian patted his shoulder. Kit was three years younger than Damian, and Kit too had come from a grand estate like Kirkwood. He'd had a family, a home where his father had been wealthy and his mother kind and wonderful.

But his father had died, then his mother had been evicted. Kit had been too little to understand why. His mother had moved them to town and had fallen into penury. She'd been sick and had passed away, leaving Kit and his three siblings alone.

The life he'd known-that had seemed so stable and perfect-had vanished in an instant. He was an orphan as Damian was, but he couldn't convince himself that he had to do what was necessary to get by.

"You don't have to stay with me," Damian told him. "You don't have to learn the trade."

"No, I'd like to stay."

"Then you have to practice what I'm showing you."

"I'm so afraid I'll be arrested."

"So?"

"I'll go to jail."

"While you're there, you'll have food to eat and a roof over your head."

"Yes, I suppose that's a benefit."

Damian didn't understand why he'd taken Kit under his wing. When he'd stumbled on him, cold, wet, and terrified, he'd seen too much of himself in the frightened boy.

He'd permitted Kit to tag along, a merciful act he'd never previously extended.

"You have to decide what you want," Damian scolded. "If you choose to remain as my partner, you have to do your part."

"I don't want to be out here on my own."

"All right, but stop whining."

"I will. It's just difficult for me."

"It was difficult for me too-in the beginning-but I shed my worries quickly enough." Damian stuffed the purse in his shirt and started off. "Come. We have to deliver this to Michael."

"I don't like him. He scares me."

"He shouldn't. If you never betray him, he'll always be your friend."

Michael Scott had rescued Damian as Damian had rescued Kit. Michael had found Damian on the streets, had brought him into his circle, had fed him and clothed him. He was a few years older than Damian, and he was tough and dangerous, smart and crafty, driven to rise above the low spot where he resided.

He'd taught Damian to steal and fight and win. He'd taught him to be wary, to be shrewd, to be dangerous too. He'd forced him to realize that the very worst thing he could imagine had already happened: His grandfather had died like a pauper in the gutter, and no one had cared a whit. His body had been dumped in a cart and hauled away by gravediggers, and Damian had no idea where he was buried.

In a matter of minutes, Damian had become a homeless waif, with no family or place or history. Michael Scott had saved him from his fate, had provided him with a job and a purpose. Damian planned to stay by Michael's side, to watch and listen and learn how to be tough and lethal too.

When he was older, when he was richer, he would return to Kirkwood and kill Miles and Mr. Marshall. It was the dream that sustained him.

He and Kit arrived at the abandoned warehouse Michael had claimed for his own. It had been empty and dilapidated, but now it was thriving with activity as Michael's employees presented him with pilfered loot he would sell for a profit.

Damian proudly handed him the purse, delighted when Michael peeked in it and saw many gold coins. He gave some of them to Damian as a reward.

"Good work, Damian."

"Thank you."

"How about you, Kit? Have you anything for me?"

"Not yet," Kit mumbled.

"He will have something very soon," Damian hurriedly interjected. "I swear."

"You know the rules," Michael warned.

"Everyone has to pay their own way," Damian replied.

"That's right," Michael said. "In this world, no one will help you. You have to help yourself." He glared at Kit. "You have to chip in your share, or you have to leave."

"He'll bring it tomorrow," Damian said, aggravated that he bothered with Kit.

"He'd better," Michael said.

"He will," Damian vowed.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Let's dance, Harold."