"None other."

"Oh, no," Sophia said, thoroughly flustered. "I hope I did not interrupt your meeting. Oh, I will cheerfully murder Mr. Vickery!"

Sir Ross responded with a deep chuckle. "You didn't interrupt anything. I was ready for Lyttleton to leave a half hour ago, thus your appearance was quite timely. Now, tell me why you are here. I suspect it has something to do with that parcel in your lap."

"First let me apologize for bothering you. I--"

"Sophia." He stared at her steadily. "I am always available to you. Always."

She could not seem to take her gaze from his. The air around them felt alive and sultry, like the stillness before a midsummer storm. Clumsily she leaned forward and placed the parcel on his desk. "I received this from Ernest just a little while ago. He said that a man delivered it to Bow Street and left no word as to the sender."

Sir Ross surveyed the address on the front of the package. As he pushed the brown paper aside, the lavender gown glimmered and rustled in the Spartan surroundings of the office. Sir Ross's face remained impassive, but one dark brow arched as he examined the beautiful garment.

"I don't know who could have sent it," Sophia said anxiously. "And there is something peculiar about it." She explained the resemblance between the lavender-silver gown and the one that had belonged to her mother.

When Sophia finished speaking, Sir Ross, who had listened intently, leaned back in his chair and considered her in a meditative way that she didn't quite like. "Miss Sydney...is it possible that the gown is a gift from your former lover?"

The thought gave Sophia a start of surprise as well as a flash of bitter amusement. "Oh, no. He has no idea that I am working here. Besides, there is no reason for him to send me a gift."

Sir Ross made a noncommittal sound and picked up a handful of the shining lavender fabric. The sight of his long fingers rubbing the delicate silk caused a peculiar flutter inside her. His thick black lashes lowered as he examined the gown; the stitching, the seams, the lace. "It is a costly garment," he said. "Well made, and of high-quality goods. But there is no dressmaker's label inside, which is unusual. I venture to guess that whoever sent the gown did not want it traced back to the modiste, who might reveal his--or her--identity."

"Then there is no way to find out who sent it?"

He looked up from the gown. "I am going to have one of the runners talk to Ernest about the messenger, as well as investigate the dressmakers who are most likely to have made this gown. The fabric is unusual--that will help to narrow the list."

"Thank you." Her hesitant smile vanished at his next question.

"Sophia, have you recently encountered any men who might have taken an interest in you? Anyone you shared a flirtation with, or spoke to at market, or--"

"No!" Sophia was not certain why the question agitated her so, but she felt her cheeks flood with heat. "I assure you, Sir Ross, I would not encourage any gentlemen that way...that is--" She broke off in confusion as she realized that shehad encouraged a particular man that way--Sir Ross himself.

"It's all right, Sophia," he said quietly. "I would not blame you if you had. You are free to do as you wish."

Rattled, she spoke without thinking. "Well, I do not have a follower, and I have not behaved in a manner that might attract one. My last experience was certainly nothing I wish to repeat."

His gaze took on a wolflike alertness. "Because of the way he left you? Or is it that you found no pleasure in his arms?"

Sophia was startled that he would ask such an intimate question, and her face flamed. "I don't see that it has any bearing on the question of who sent this gown."

"It does not," he admitted. "But I am curious."

"Well, you will have to remain curious!" She struggled to restore her splintered composure. "May I leave now, sir? I have much to do, especially with Eliza being injured. Lucie has worked her fingers to the bone."

"Yes," he said brusquely. "I will have Sayer investigate the matter of the gown, and keep you informed of the developments."

"Thank you." Sophia stood and went to the door, while he followed close at her heels. He reached for the knob, but paused as Sophia spoke without looking at him. "I...I found no pleasure in his arms." She concentrated on the heavy oak paneling of the door. "But that was perhaps my fault more than his."

Sophia felt the hot touch of his breath against her hair, his lips hovering close to the top of her head. His nearness filled her with an ache of longing. Blindly she seized the doorknob and let herself out of the office, refusing to glance back at him.

Ross closed the door and went back to his desk, bracing his hands on the cluttered surface. He let out a tense sigh. The desire that he had kept under iron control for so long had raged in a tremendous inferno. All the force of his will, his physical needs, his obsessive nature, were now focused in one direction. Sophia. He could barely stand to be in the same room without touching her.

Closing his eyes, Ross absorbed the familiar atmosphere of the office. He had spent most of the past five years within these walls, surrounded by maps and books and documents. He had ventured out for investigations or other official business, but he always returned here, to the room that was the center of law enforcement in London. Suddenly it amazed him that he had devoted himself so completely to his work for so long.

The lavender ballgown glimmered richly on the desk. Ross imagined how Sophia would look in it...the color would suit her blue eyes and dark blonde hair beautifully. Who had sent it to her? He was suffused with a jealousy and violent possessiveness that astonished him. He wanted the exclusive rights to provide whatever she required, whatever would delight her.

Ross sighed heavily, trying to understand the mixture of joy and strong unwillingness that seethed inside him. He had vowed never to fall in love again. He had not forgotten how terrible it was to care so deeply for someone, to fear for her safety, to want her happiness more than his own. Somehow he would have to find a way to stop it from happening, to satisfy his boundless need for Sophia and yet keep from entrusting his heart to her.

CHAPTER 5

Early in the evening, when Sophia was certain that Sir Ross was away on an investigation, she solicited Lucie to help her turn the mattress on his bed and change the linens.

"Yes, miss," Lucie said, her cheeks bunching with an apologetic smile. "But it's like this, y'see. I can't stop me mitts from bleedin' ever since I scrubbed the coppers this afternoon."

"Your what? Your hands? Let me see them." Sophia inhaled sharply as she saw the poor maid's hands, so chapped from the sand-and-acid paste used to scrub pots that they were scabbed and bleeding. "Oh, Lucie, why didn't you tell me before now?" Scolding affectionately, she sat the girl at the kitchen table and went to the larder. Bringing out an assortment of bottles, she poured glycerine, elder-flower water, and oil into a bowl, then whisked the mixture briskly with a fork. "You must soak your hands in this for the next half hour, and tonight you must sleep with gloves on."

"I got none, miss."

"No gloves?" Sophia thought of her own gloves, the only pair she possessed, and she winced at the thought of sacrificing them. Immediately she felt a touch of shame as she glanced once more at the housemaid's raw hands. "Go to my room, then," she said, "and get mine from the basket beneath the night table."

Lucie stared at her in concern. "But I can't ruin yer gloves, miss."

"Oh, your hands are far more important than a silly pair of gloves."

"What about Sir Ross's mattress?"

"Never you mind about that. I'll take care of it by myself."

"But it's 'ard to turn without 'elp--" "You sit and soak your hands," Sophia said, trying to sound stern. "Take care of them, or you'll be of no use to anyone tomorrow."

Lucie smiled at her gratefully. "No disrespect, Miss Sydney, but...ye're a love. A real love."

Sophia waved the words away and hurried to clean Sir Ross's bedroom before he returned. She set an armful of fresh bed linens on a chair and surveyed the room appraisingly. It had been dusted and swept, but the mattress needed turning, and Sir Ross's clothes from the previous day had still not been gathered for laundering.

The room suited Sir Ross quite well. Rich mahogany furniture was enhanced with dark green brocade upholstery and window draperies. One wall was adorned with an ancient, faded tapestry panel. A series of three framed engravings were hung on another wall, caricatures portraying Sir Ross as a massive Olympian figure, dandling politicians and government officials on his knee as if they were children. One hand clutched the strings for a few Bow Street runner puppets, their pockets bulging with money. It was apparent that the caricatures were meant to criticize the tremendous power that Sir Ross and his runners had amassed.

Sophia well understood the source of the artist's grievance. Most Englishmen abhorred the notion of having a strong, organized police force, declaring such an arrangement to be unconstitutional and dangerous. They felt far more comfortable with the ancient parish-constable system, which called for average but untrained citizens to serve as constables, each for the period of a year. However, the parish constables had been unable to deal with the proliferation of robbery, rape, murder, and fraud that plagued the populous city of London. Parliament had refused to authorize a true police force, so the Bow Street runners had become a law unto themselves, their powers mostly self-assumed. The only man they answered to was Sir Ross, who had made his own position far more powerful than had ever been intended.