Reaching Morgan's office, Nick looked askance at the main court clerk, Vickery, who gave him an encouraging nod. "Sir Grant has not yet gone to morning sessions, Mr. Gentry. I am certain that he will wish to see you."

Nick knocked on the door and heard Morgan's rumbling voice. "Come in."

As massive as the battered mahogany desk was, it appeared like a piece of children's furniture compared to the size of the man who sat behind it. Sir Grant Morgan was a spectacularly large man, at least five inches taller than Nick's own height of six feet. Although Morgan was fast approaching the age of forty, no hint of silver had yet appeared in his short black hair, and his distinctive vitality had not faded since the days that he himself had served as a Bow Street runner. As well as having been the most accomplished runner of his day, Morgan was easily the most popular, as he had once been the subject of a string of best-selling ha'penny novels. Before Morgan, the government and the public had regarded the entire Bow Street force with the innate British suspicion toward any form of organized law enforcement.

Nick had been relieved by Sir Ross's decision to appoint Morgan as his successor. An intelligent and self-educated man, Morgan had worked his way through the ranks, beginning in the foot patrol and working his way to the exalted position of chief magistrate. Nick respected that. He also liked Morgan's characteristic blunt honesty and the fact that he seldom bothered with splitting ethical hairs when a job needed to be done.

Morgan guided the runners with an iron hand, and they respected him for his toughness. His only apparent vulnerability was his wife, a small but lovely woman whose mere presence could make her husband start purring like a cat. One could always tell when Lady Morgan had visited the offices at Bow Street, leaving a bewitching trace of perfume in the air and a happily bemused expression on her husband's face. Nick was amused by Sir Grant's obvious weakness where his wife was concerned, and he was determined to avoid such a trap. No female was ever going to lead him around by the nose. Let Morgan and Sir Ross make fools of themselves over their wives-he was much smarter than they.

"Welcome back," the magistrate said, leaning back in his chair to regard him with sharp green eyes. "Have a seat. I assume your return means that you have concluded your business with Lord Radnor?"

Nick took the chair across the desk. "Yes. I found Miss Howard in Hampshire, working as a lady's companion to the dowager countess of Westcliff."

"I am acquainted with Lord Westcliff," Morgan remarked. "A man of honor and good sense-and perhaps the only peer in England who doesn't equate modernity with coarseness."

For Morgan, the comments were akin to wildly effusive praise. Nick made a noncommittal grunt, having little desire to discuss the many virtues of Westcliff. "After tomorrow, I will be ready for new assignments," he said. "I just have one last matter to clear away."

Although Nick had expected that Morgan would be pleased by the information-after all, he had been absent for two months-the magistrate received his words in a surprisingly distant manner. "I'll see if I can find something for you to do. In the meantime-"

"What?" Nick stared at him with open suspicion. The magistrate had never displayed such diffidence before. There wasalways something to be done...unless the entire London underworld had elected to go on leave at the same time Nick had.

Looking as though he wanted to discuss some volatile matter but had not been given permission to do so, Morgan frowned. "You need to visit Sir Ross," he said abruptly. "There is something that he wants to communicate with you."

Nick didn't like the sound of that at all. His suspicious gaze met with Morgan's. "What the hell does he want?" As one of the few people who knew about Nick's secret past, Morgan was well aware of the agreement Nick had made three years earlier and the difficulties between him and his esteemed brother-in-law.

"You'll have to learn that from Sir Ross," Morgan replied. "And until you do, you will receive no assignments from me."

"What have I done now?" Nick asked, suspecting that some kind of punishment was being inflicted on him. Swiftly he mulled over his actions of the past few months. There had been the usual minor infractions, but nothing out of the ordinary. He found it infuriating that Sir Ross, despite his so-called retirement, still had the ability to manipulate him. And Morgan, damn his eyes, would never go against Sir Ross's wishes.

Amusement flickered in Morgan's eyes. "To my knowledge, you've done nothing wrong, Gentry. I suspect that Sir Ross wishes to discuss your actions at the Barthas house fire."

Nick scowled. Two months earlier, just before taking the commission from Lord Radnor, he had received an on-duty summons to run to the fashionable quarter near Covent Garden. A fire had started in a private house belonging to Nathaniel Barthas, a rich wine merchant. Being the first constable to arrive on the scene, Nick had been informed by onlookers that no one in the family had been seen to exit the burning building.

Without stopping to think, Nick had dashed inside the inferno. He had found Barthas and his wife on the second floor, overcome by smoke, and their three children crying in another room. After managing to rouse the couple, Nick had ushered them from the home while carrying the three screaming imps beneath his arms and on his back. In what seemed a matter of seconds afterward, the house had exploded into flames, and the roof had caved in.

To Nick's chagrin, theTimes had published an extravagant account of the incident, making him out to be some grand, heroic figure. There had been no end of friendly needling from the other runners, who had adopted expressions of mock worship and exclaimed adoringly whenever he'd entered the public office. To escape the situation, Nick had requested a temporary leave from Bow Street, and Morgan had given it to him without hesitation. Thankfully, the public was possessed of a short memory. During the past eight weeks of Nick's absence, the story had disappeared, and things had finally returned to normal.

"The damned fire is irrelevant now," he said brusquely.

"Sir Ross is not of that opinion."

Nick shook his head in annoyance. "I should have had the sense to stay out of the place."

"But you didn't," Morgan returned. "You went inside, at great peril to yourself. And because of your efforts, five lives were saved. Tell me, Gentry, would you have reacted the same way three years ago?"

Nick kept his face smooth, although the question startled him. He knew the answer at once...no. He would not have seen the value in taking such a risk, when there would have been no material benefit in saving the lives of ordinary people who were of no use to him. He would have let them die, and although it might have bothered him temporarily, he would have found a way to put it out of his mind. He had changed in some inexplicable way. The realization made him ill at ease.

"Who knows," he muttered with an insouciant shrug. "And why should it matter to Sir Ross? If I am being summoned so that he can give me a pat on the head for a job well done-"

"It's more than that."

Nick scowled. "If you're not going to explain or give me some work, I'm not going to waste my time sitting here."

"I will not keep you, then," the magistrate said equably. "Good day, Gentry."

Nick headed for the door, paused as he remembered something, and turned back to Morgan. "Before I go, I need to ask a favor. Will you use your influence with the registrar to get a civil license by tomorrow?"

"A marriage license?" The only sign of Morgan's puzzlement was the subtle narrowing of his eyes. "Doing errands for Lord Radnor, are you? Why does he wish to marry the girl with such haste? And why would he condescend to wed in the registrar's office, rather than have a church ceremony? Furthermore-"

"The license isn't for Radnor," Nick interrupted. The words suddenly stuck in his throat like a handful of thistles. "It's for me."

An interminable silence followed as the magistrate worked things out for himself. Finally recovering from an attack of jaw-dropping astonishment, Morgan fastened his intent gaze on Nick's reddened face. "Justwhom are you marrying, Gentry?"

"Miss Howard," Nick muttered.

A snort of disbelieving laughter escaped the chief magistrate. "Lord Radnor's bride?" He regarded Nick with mingled amusement and wonder. "My God. She must be an unusual young woman."

Nick shrugged. "Not really. I've just decided that having a wife will be convenient."

"In some ways, yes," Morgan said dryly. "In other ways, no. You might have done better to give her to Radnor and find some other woman for yourself. You've made a considerable enemy, Gentry."

"I can handle Radnor."

Morgan smiled with an amused resignation that annoyed Nick profoundly. "Well, allow me to offer my sincere felicitations. I will notify the superintendent-registrar, and the license will be waiting at his office tomorrow morning. And I urge you to speak to Sir Ross soon thereafter, as his plans will be all the more relevant in light of your marriage."

"I can hardly wait to hear them," Nick said sarcastically, making the chief magistrate grin.

Grimly wondering what kind of scheme his manipulative brother-in-law was devising, Nick took his leave of the Bow Street office. The sunny April day had rapidly become overcast, the air turning cool and damp. Maneuvering nimbly through the mass of carriages, wagons, carts, and animals that clogged the streets, Nick rode away from the river, toward the west. Abruptly Knightsbridge quickly gave way to open country, and enormous stone mansions on large tracts of land replaced the rows of terrace-houses built on neat squares.