"Did that woman call me a tart?" she asked, wondering if she should have taken offense.

Sir Ross smiled slightly. "In street cant, that is considered a compliment. They attach no negative meaning to the word."

"I see. There was something else she said...what does 'trouble and strife' mean?"

"It's the Cockney term for 'wife.' "

"Oh." Uncomfortably she focused on the ground before them as they walked. "The Cockney way of speaking is quite fascinating, isn't it?" she babbled, trying to fill the silence. "Almost like a foreign language, really. I must confess, I don't understand half the things I hear at market."

"That," came his dry rejoinder, "is probably a good thing."

When they returned to the kitchen of Bow Street No. 4, Eliza was waiting, a sheepish smile on her face. "Thank you, Miss Sophia. I am sorry that I couldn't go to market."

"That's perfectly all right" Sophia said evenly. "You must take care of your knee so that it will heal properly."

Eliza's eyes widened when she saw that Sir Ross had accompanied Sophia. "Oh, sir...how very kind of you! I am very sorry to make so much trouble!"

"No trouble at all," he said.

Eliza's gaze locked onto the pink rose in Sophia's hand with keen attention. Although the cook-maid forbore to comment, the speculation in her eyes was obvious. Carefully Eliza lifted a few objects from the market basket and hobbled toward the dry larder. Her voice floated behind her. "Did they have all the ingredients for the seed cake, Miss Sophia? The caraway and rye, and the currants for the top?"

"Yes," Sophia replied as the cook-maid disappeared into the larder. "But we could find no red currants, and--"

Suddenly her words were smothered into silence as Sir Ross pulled her into his arms. His lips descended to hers in a kiss so tender and carnal that she could not help responding. Stunned, she struggled to retain her hatred of him, to remember the wrongs of the past, but his lips were utterly warm and compelling, and her thoughts scattered crazily. The pink rose dropped from her nerveless fingers. Sophia swayed against him, groping for his hard shoulders in a futile bid for balance. His tongue searched her mouth...delicious...sweetly intimate. Sophia inhaled sharply and tilted her head back in utter surrender, her entire existence distilled to this one burning moment.

Through the pounding heartbeat in her ears she dimly heard Eliza's concerned voice echoing from the larder. "No red currants? But what will we top the seed cake with?"

Sir Ross released Sophia's mouth, leaving her lips moist and kiss-softened. His face remained close to hers, and Sophia felt as if she were drowning in the silver pools of his eyes. His hand came to the side of her face, his ringers curving over her cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. Somehow Sophia managed to answer Eliza. "We f-found golden currants instead--"

As soon as the words left her mouth, Sir Ross kissed her again, his tongue exploring, teasing. Her groping fingers touched the back of his neck, where the thick black hair curled against his nape. Sensation rustled through her, spurring her pulse to an intemperate pace. Taking advantage of her surrender, he kissed her more aggressively, hunting for the deepest, sweetest taste of her. As her knees weakened, his arms wrapped securely around her, supporting her body as he continued to ravish her mouth.

"Golden currants?" came Eliza's dissatisfied voice. "Well, the flavor won't be quite the same, but they will be better than nothing."

Sir Ross released Sophia and steadied her with his hands at her waist. While she stared at him blankly, he gave her a brief smile and left the kitchen just as Eliza reemerged from the larder.

"Miss Sophia, where is the sack of caster sugar? I thought I had carried it into the larder, but..." Eliza paused and glanced around the kitchen. "Where is Sir Ross?"

"He..." Sophia bent to retrieve the fallen rose. "He left."

Her pulse throbbed in all the vulnerable places of her body. She felt feverish, hungering for the kisses and caresses of a man she hated. She was a hypocrite, a wanton.

A fool.

"Miss Sydney," Ernest said, bringing a paper-wrapped package to the kitchen, "a man brought this for you not ten minutes back."

Sophia, who was sitting at the table for a midmorning cup of tea, received the large package with an exclamation of surprise. She had not made any purchases, nor had she ordered anything for the household. And the distant cousin who had taken her in sometime after her parents' death was not the kind who would send unexpected gifts. "I wonder what it could be," she murmured aloud, studying the package. Her name and the Bow Street address were written on the brown-paper surface, but there was no indication as to the sender.

"Was there a note attached?" Sophia asked Ernest. She picked up a knife and sawed at the rough twine that had been knotted around the parcel.

He shook his head. "P'rhaps there is one inside. May I open it for ye, miss? That string looks awful tough. The knife could slip, and ye might slice yer finger off. I'll 'elp ye."

Sophia smiled into his eager face. "Thank you, Ernest, that is very kind. But if I am not mistaken, didn't Sir Grant ask you to fetch the bottles of ink he ordered at the chemist's shop?"

"Yes, 'e did." Ernest heaved a world-weary sigh, as if he had been greatly put upon that day. "I'd best 'ave it 'ere when Sir Grant comes back from court."

Sophia's smile deepened as she bade him farewell. Returning her attention to the mysterious package, she expertly severed the rest of the twine and unwrapped the parcel. Layers of thin white tissue enveloped something soft and rustling. Curious, Sophia folded them back. Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld a gown--not a plain, serviceable one like the others she owned, but made of silk and lace. It was suitable for a ball. But why would someone send such a garment to her? Her hands shook with a sudden tremor as she clawed past the gown for a note. The sender had either forgotten to include one or deliberately had not done so. She shook out the gown and stared at it in confusion. There was something familiar and disturbing about it, something that reached into the farthest corners of her memory...

Why, it reminded her of a gown of her mother's! As a little girl, Sophia had loved to try on her mother's dresses and shoes and jewelry, and had played princess for hours. Her favorite dress had been made of an unusual color, a gleaming silk that looked lavender in some lights, shimmering silver in others. This gown was the same rare shade, with the same low, scooped neckline and puffed sleeves trimmed with delicate white lace. However, this was not her mother's gown; it was a copy, made over in a modern style with a slightly lower waist and fuller skirts.

Profoundly troubled, Sophia folded the garment in the brown paper and rewrapped it. Who could have sent such a gift to her, and why, and was it merely a strange coincidence that the dress resembled her mother's?

Instinctively she left the kitchen and took the parcel with her, heading for the one person she trusted most. Later she would come to wonder why she had turned to Sir Ross without even thinking, when she had relied only on herself for so many years. It was a sign of some significant change in her, one that made her too uncomfortable to dwell on for long.

Sir Ross's door was closed, and the sound of voices indicated that he was in the midst of a meeting. Crestfallen, Sophia hesitated outside the door.

Just then Mr. Vickery happened to walk by. "Good morning, Miss Sydney," the court clerk said. "I don't think Sir Ross is ready to start depositions yet."

"I--I wished to speak with him on a personal matter." Sophia clutched the package tightly to her chest. "But I see that he is occupied, and I certainly do not wish to disturb him."

Vickery frowned and gave her a reflective glance. "Miss Sydney, Sir Ross has made it clear that if you ever have any concerns, he wishes to know immediately."

"It can wait," she said firmly. "It is a trivial matter. I will return later when Sir Ross is available. No,no , Mr. Vickery,please do not knock at that door." She groaned with distress as the clerk ignored her protests and rapped decisively at the portal.

To Sophia's consternation, the door opened to reveal Sir Ross accompanying a visitor to the threshold. The gray-haired gentleman was small of stature but imposing nonetheless, dressed in fine clothes with an elaborate white cravat tied over a lace-bedecked shirt. His sharp dark eyes focused on Sophia, and he turned to smile wryly at Sir Ross.

"Now I see, Cannon, why you are so eager to conclude our meeting. The company of this fetching creature is doubtless preferable to mine."

Ross's mouth quirked, and he did not deny the statement. "Good day, Lord Lyttleton. I will examine the draft of your bill most carefully. However, do not expect that my views will change." "I want your support, Cannon," the gentleman said in a soft, meaningful tone. "And if I receive it, you will find me a most useful friend."

"Of that I have no doubt."

They exchanged bows, and Lyttleton departed, the soles of his leather shoes making an expensive tapping sound on the worn wood floor.

Sir Ross's eyes gleamed as he stared at Sophia. "Come," he said softly, and guided her into his office. The pressure of his hand on her back was warm and light. Sophia sat in the chair he indicated, her spine straight, while he resumed his place behind the huge mahogany desk.

"Lyttleton." She repeated the name of the gentleman who had just left. "Surely that was not the same Lyttleton who is the Secretary of State for War?"