"I do hope his lordship wasn't too upset when you gave your notice."

Now why on earth had she said that? Of course "his lordship" hadn't noticed that one of his upstairs maids had left his service-in fact, he very likely had not even been informed. And yet Emily wanted him to notice that she had some power to disrupt his empire. How absurd.

"He wasn't in residence, miss. I suppose the butler will inform the estate manager, but I don't imagine I'll be much missed."

Emily cleared her throat. "I wanted us all to be together because I wanted you to understand a few things about our household." She took a fortifying breath. Nothing for it but to dive in. "First, Mrs. Smith is a former slave." The only sign that the news made an impression on the new maid was a slight widening of her eyes. "She is now employed as companion to my grandmother, who is..." Emily glanced at her grandmother, the very picture of industry, bent over her sewing as if she were alone in the room. "Well, she's not all there. Do you understand what I mean by that?"

"I think so, miss. Age often seems to rob us of our memories, doesn't it?"

"Yes, exactly. But she's quite happy, so we do our best to keep her entertained. Mrs. Smith in particular has a way with her." Emily pursed her lips. There was no point dancing around the real matter. "There's more. Mrs. Smith has a son, William-we call him Billy. He is still enslaved, or as good as. His former owner, a very bad man by the name of Manning, owned an estate near my father's house. Manning gave him to another man, an industrialist who put him to work in a cotton mill. He's called an apprentice, but he is not free to leave."

Angela looked at Sally. After a moment of awkward silence, she said, "You must miss him something awful, Mrs. Smith."

Emily's anxiety abated a little more. "It's important that you know, Angela, before you take up employment here, that Billy has been trying to escape. He may have already. When he achieves his freedom, he will come here to live with us. The legal status of slaves on English soil is murky. Some would argue that harboring him in our home, as we plan to do, transgresses the law." She stopped there. There was no point embroidering, in trying to make the raw facts seem any less stark.

Angela simply looked at Emily and said, "There's the law of man and then there's the law of God, isn't there, miss? I signed one of those petitions myself, back in Essex. A man came to town, giving speeches every night for a week. He asked us to sign. Didn't seem to think it mattered that we were servants without property. So I put my mark on his paper with pride."

Relief flooded Emily. She could trust her new maid. "Thank you for saying that, Angela." She stood. "Now, if you'll forgive me, I've got to be going. We have a meeting place worked out-a place where Billy will come when he attains his freedom. One of us visits it every day at three o'clock to wait. And on the day he comes..." The catch in her throat embarrassed her.

"On the day he comes, you'll be there to take him home," Angela finished, rising along with Emily. "I'll accompany you."

"Oh, no, take the rest of the day to get settled. Molly can show you to your room."

"It's not right for you to go by yourself, miss." Emily couldn't help but think she sounded a little like Lord Blackstone. "I'm your maid. I should be with you."

"Very well, then. I shall enjoy the company."

And she did. Emily was surprised how quickly the journey passed. They spoke of Angela's duties, negotiated her half day, and discussed how Emily would wear her hair at the ball. By the time they alit from the hack on Fleet Street, Angela had changed her mind twice.

"I'll have to see the dress, of course, but from what you say, I think a simple chignon will be best. Especially if you wear the pearls. If I have a flaw, it's that I tend to get carried away with the designs I imagine in my head. But with curls, simple is often better."

Emily led the girl to the front of the crowd assembled on Fleet Street across from the church. "This is where I generally wait."

"Look at that!" Like all newcomers to London, Angela was transfixed by the wooden figures perched in a niche above the clock. Two enormous wooden giants stood, each holding a club, ready to strike the bells on the quarter hour. That they were barely clad-many said scandalous-only added to their mystique. Emily knew it was futile to try to converse with the girl until she'd seen the automata in motion, and after a few minutes, the giants obliged. Emily kept her eyes out for the pickpockets who preyed on unsuspecting tourists.

After the performance, Angela turned to Emily. "Have you met Mr. Smith? Does he know what you look like?"

"Oh yes! We grew up together."

Angela eyed her. Emily sighed. She hadn't wanted to get into the details, but if she was actually going to be friends with her maid, which it seemed she was, there was no avoiding it. And there would be no getting around the scar. Angela would see it this very night.

Lowering her voice, she whispered the story, glancing around as she spoke to make sure they weren't overheard by anyone. "He and Sally were owned by Mr. Manning, who, as I said, owned the estate nearest my father's house. My mother was dead, and my father was an army captain often off campaigning, so I spent a great deal of time at the household. Billy was like a brother to me. When he could escape his duties, we played. Ran a bit wild in fact, climbing trees, swimming in lakes."

There was that slight widening of Angela's eyes again. The girl had been well trained. Emily was beginning to understand that this was Angela's "shocked face." Might as well get it all out. She led the girl away, until they were standing apart from the crowd. "One night I tried to help him escape." Angela eyes widened only a little more. "Sally was afforded some leeway because she was growing older. But Billy had a miserable life. As he got older, his workload grew more onerous. By the time he was sixteen he was working fourteen hours a day. He was routinely beaten for offenses such as not chopping wood quickly enough. I could go on, but I won't.

"The point is, it eventually became apparent to me that he had to get away or he would die. He would literally be worked to death. We made a plan for him to escape and make his way to London. I was to follow later. Billy and I planned to meet here at St. Dunstan's-we'd come every day at three until one day, we both did." She glanced at the clock. "It's famous because of the automata, and it's one of the few places we knew in London." She paused. Quite deliberately, she avoided thinking about that night. Angela didn't need to know what happened afterward. The events replayed themselves at night, when she was trying to fall asleep. But for them to intrude in the day? No, she could not permit it. She shoved them down. There were things that needed doing, and letting the past paralyze her wasn't going help.

"Our attempt was unsuccessful. We were caught. In his rage, the worse thing Mr. Manning could think to do was to separate Billy from his mother and me. So he sold him."

"And you think he will still try to escape and meet you here as you'd originally planned?"

"I know it." And she did. Though they hadn't been able to speak, he'd given her a look as Mr. Manning's footmen hauled him off-a look that said that he'd see her beneath the giants of St. Dunstan's.

"And you come here every day?"

"Yes. Sometimes Molly or Sally comes if I am unable to, or if I'm away from town."

Angela nodded decisively. "I can help, too. Mr. Smith won't recognize me, of course." The maid looked around the crowd. "There are lots of people here, but even so, surely he would stand out?"

"There are a great many free blacks in London these days, but yes, that's what I've always assumed. A dark-skinned man hanging about is very likely to be Billy."

"Perhaps I could hold a sign, as if I am meeting a passenger coming off the mail coach, someone I don't know!"

Angela was getting into the spirit of things, and Emily couldn't help but laugh at her enthusiasm. This was the same feeling of camaraderie that had arisen when Catharine Burnham took her to Madame Marceau's. It felt so good to have allies.

Now they were laughing? It wasn't enough to stand aimlessly in the middle of Fleet Street, putting herself on display? No, apparently she had to draw attention with a delighted peal of laughter. A warm, low, inviting laugh that made a man feel like he was being excluded from a great, intimate, life-changing joke.

At least she'd brought a maid this time. St. Dunstan's was respectable enough. But since it was so popular with tourists, pickpockets swarmed the area. It wasn't a place for a young lady to loiter alone.

His eyes rested on the maid's features for a moment. No doubt this was the new lady's maid Miss Mirren spoke of. She seemed familiar, but he couldn't place her. The girl must have felt his regard because her gaze swung to his. Her laughter died as her eyes widened. Miss Mirren's attention followed, and her expression mimicked her servant's. He'd been caught out. Fair enough. It wasn't as if he'd been trying to hide. He'd been standing in plain sight, growing increasingly agitated. Pushing off from the doorway he'd been leaning against, he made his way to the women.

"Lord Blackstone," said the maid, sinking into a deep curtsy. It seemed he did know this woman from somewhere, given that she'd addressed him by name, but damned if he could remember where.

He glanced at Miss Mirren before speaking, hoping she might provide a clue. She looked enormously pleased with herself, pressing those damned lips into a straight line as if she were trying not to laugh. He bowed. "Ladies."

"Fancy meeting you here, Lord Blackstone." Miss Mirren's eyes narrowed. "I can't imagine what on earth has brought you to St. Dunstan's."

"I can't imagine what on earth has brought you here," he countered, refraining from adding, "again."

The slight pause that followed was filled by the maid, who answered, "Shopping, my lord."

He didn't know whether to laugh or to scold the girl for talking out of line.

"Angela, my new lady's maid, has been taking me to task over the appalling lack of variety in my ribbon collection, and we are out to remedy the situation," Miss Mirren said.

"You're out buying ribbons."

"Yes."

"Here on Fleet Street," he drawled.

"Of course not." Miss Mirren smiled blandly. "This is merely a convenient place to rest for a while. To take in the wonders of London." She gestured at the clock.

"Convenient to all the ribbon shops nearby."

"Angela was recently in your employ at Clareford Manor. I have poached her!" Miss Mirren practically shouted.

"I beg your pardon?" If her intent had been to confuse him, and thereby to change the subject, she had succeeded. He looked again at the maid. Yes, of course, he recognized her from his recent stay at the manor.

"She's very good with curls."

Miss Mirren eyed him smugly, as if Angela's employment was a great victory in a tactical war he hadn't known they were waging. Curls notwithstanding, he would gladly cede Angela if it meant Miss Mirren would no longer be parading around Fleet Street by herself.

It was time to find out what the devil she was doing here. "Miss Mirren, might I have a word with you?" He shot what he hoped was an authoritative stare at Angela. "Alone?"

The girl began to step away but was halted by Miss Mirren. "I don't think that would be proper, my lord."

"Not proper?" he echoed. Of course it wasn't proper for them to be alone unchaperoned. It wasn't proper that they should share intimate memories and secrets in his library in the middle of the night, either. And it certainly wasn't proper for them to kiss passionately and press their nearly naked bodies against each other in the lake.

It was all highly, highly improper.

And by God, he wanted to do it all again.

"Not proper at all. And we have ribbons to buy."

Just like that, she'd dismissed him. Short of making a scene, there was nothing to do but make his bow.

He watched her walk away, hips swaying gently beneath her skirts. Turning toward one of the bookshops on the street, he discreetly adjusted himself to ease the ache in his groin. He wanted her-and not just physically. He wanted to tell her more about his miserable childhood, craved more of her gentle absolution.

Oh, God. He wanted to tell her about her father.

The chilling thought abruptly halted the desire swirling through him.

He had an errand to run. And after that, he would continue with his plan. He would marry Miss Mirren in order to safeguard his mission-and no less important, to protect her from herself. He would give her the sanctuary of his name, whether she wanted it or not.

The errand in question took him to the Methodist Central Hall. He placed a newspaper on the desk in front of a young man working in the office and pointed to an advertisement.

"A Day of Speeches to Reopen the Question of Abolition. I'd like to buy a ticket, please."

"I'm sorry, sir, but the program has sold out."

"What does that mean, sold out? How many tickets have you sold?"

"Five hundred, sir."

"Five hundred! I thought the days of overflowing abolitionist meetings were over."

"Indeed, but a group of speakers convinced us to offer them our space, and the event is proving popular."

"Any names of note?"

"No less than Clarkson himself. But I suspect many are coming to hear the mysterious veiled lady."

Blackstone tilted his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. He was already in a church. Perhaps he should pray for patience. "The mysterious veiled lady?" he finally managed to ask, schooling his features into a mask.

"A female abolitionist. She plans to deliver her speech anonymously. Everyone's very anxious to see her. Or not see her, I suppose I should say." The man laughed at his own jest while Blackstone clenched his fists. "We are looking for a larger venue, though, so if you'd like to check back in a few days I may have good news."

"Thank you, that won't be necessary."

He wouldn't be attending-and, he vowed, neither would the mysterious veiled lady.

Chapter Twelve.

Breaking into the Mannings' London town house was going to be easy. Or so Emily told herself as she stood on the back terrace, attempting to pick the lock to the French window that led to Mr. Manning's study. And, really, one could hardly call it "breaking in" in the criminal sense. She certainly had the moral high ground. Tossing an ineffective hairpin into a bush, she looked around for a better tool. A rock might do-she could just break the glass. Sarah's letters indicated the family was all in Somerset, and even if someone belowstairs heard her, she knew exactly what she was looking for and could be in and out before they made it up to investigate.

"It's settled then," she whispered, fear surging through her as she stooped to pick up a rock from a planter filled with large decorative stones.

To her surprised delight, her first blow shattered the glass near the window's handle. She wrapped her shawl around her arm to protect it from the shards, reached through to unlatch the window, and stepped into the study. The fading twilight was enough show her the way to the desk. It was very similar to Mr. Manning's desk in Somerset. Holding her breath, she opened the top right drawer.

Ah! There it was! Pleased with herself, she grabbed the red-leather-bound book. Spying was not so very terrifying.

A muffled thud startled her, and she ducked so the desk obscured her. Correction-spying was, in fact, quite terrifying. The noise sounded like it came from outside. Willing her thundering heart to slow, she crawled over to the window and peeped out. Nothing was in evidence, so after a few moments' pause she made her way outside, still crawling because it seemed safer. She offered a prayer. Please don't let there be anyone out there. Not only because it was imperative she avoid detection, but because she had very little time to spare and couldn't afford to be detained. She would have to hurry if she wanted to make it home in time to change before Catharine and James Burnham arrived to escort her to the ball. Though she had walked to the site of her crime, she would have to hire a hack to take her home. At least Angela had already arranged her hair. She patted it, hoping her adventure hadn't threatened her coiffure.

Perhaps it hadn't been a good idea to combine a major social obligation with an evening of espionage. Real spies probably did not try to go to balls when they were working. Still on all fours, she glanced around. There was nothing out of place on the terrace. Cautiously, she rose and peered over the edge. The garden was deserted, so she took a deep breath, clutched the book to her chest, and ran.

Blackstone was, uncharacteristically, indecisive. Was he just going to let her break in? Surely the noise would draw a servant. And she could seriously injure herself. Miss Mirren was an intelligent woman, but her talents apparently did not extend to accurately assessing risk. After all, she'd spent far too much time in his own company to be considered a cautious woman.

As he shifted his weight to get a better view, the tree's bark abraded his arms. The fact that this was the second tree he had climbed in as many days in order to further his Miss Mirren mission was not lost on him. He was no longer a boy, and climbing a tree with only one hand was deuced difficult. Perhaps retiring to Whitehall to run operations from behind a desk wasn't such a bad idea after all.

What was she doing now? Oh, for the love of God, she was going to break the window with a rock. She'd never succeed, and in the interim, he was going to climb down the tree and make his way up the terrace like a normal person. But before he could decide what he would say to explain his presence without exposing himself as a spy, he heard a smash.

She was in. Goddammit!

She was in, and there was someone coming, judging by a crunching sound behind him. He twisted in his perch. The tree gave him an unobstructed view of the terrace and the garden beyond. A view which currently contained a gardener ambling up a gravel path, carrying a large potted ficus tree. He had to be bound for the terrace, where identical clay planters lined the side walls.

This is what it was going to be like to have a wife. He wasn't even married to her yet, and she had him traipsing around town committing petty crimes in service of her well-being. Silently, he lowered himself onto terrace's wide balustrade, keeping his eyes on the gardener.

No, he corrected himself, this was not what it was going to be like to be married to Miss Mirren. That was the point. Marrying her would put a stop to this kind of behavior.

"Sorry, friend," Blackstone whispered as he produced a small vial from his pocket and dripped a few drops of liquid onto his handkerchief. The man quickly lost consciousness, and Blackstone had dragged him halfway to a small shed at the back of the yard when a brown-clad figure streaked past. Pitching his voice to reach her but no further, he said, "A little help would not go unappreciated." He was, of course, perfectly capable of moving the unfortunate gardener himself, but it would be good for her to face the consequences of her carelessness.

She stopped in her tracks, pausing for a moment before turning back toward him. Under other circumstances he would have laughed at the juxtaposition between the drab brown dress she wore-she looked like a scullery maid-and her exquisite coiffure, which, studded with gems, must have been styled in anticipation of tonight's ball. The new maid might even have painted her cheeks-but perhaps that was merely the mortification she should be feeling right now.

"What's in the book?" he asked, nodding at the large red leather volume she clutched to her chest.