Cautiously she accepted the ungainly stack. “I believe it is a weekly publication of police news?”

He nodded. “It contains descriptions of offenders at large and details of their crimes. It is one of Bow Street’s most effective tools in apprehending criminals, particularly the ones who come from counties outside my jurisdiction. That stack you’re holding has notices from mayors and magistrates all across England.”

Sophia scanned the top few notes and read aloud.“‘ Arthur Clewen, by trade a blacksmith, about five feet ten inches high, with dark curled hair, effeminate voice, large nose, charged with fraud in Chichester… Mary Thompson, alias Hobbes, alias Chiswit, a tall girl thin of frame, with light straight hair, charged with stabbing murder in Wolverhampton…’ ”

“Those notes must be compiled and copied every week,” Ross said tersely. “It’s tedious, and I have far more pressing matters to attend to. From now on, that will be one of your responsibilities.” He pointed to a small table in the corner, every available inch of its scarred surface covered with books, files, and correspondence. “You may work there. You’ll have to share my office, as there is no room for you elsewhere. As things stand, I’m away on investigations much of the time.”

“You will hire me, then,” she said, her voice rich with satisfaction. “Thank you, Sir Ross.”

He slanted her an ironic glance. “If I find that you are not suited for the position, you will accept my decision without protest.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One more thing. You will not be required to go to the prisoners’ van each morning. Vickery will do it.”

“But you said that it was part of your assistant’s responsibility, and I—”

“Are you arguing with me, Miss Sydney?”

She closed her mouth abruptly. “No, Sir Ross.”

He gave her a brief nod. “The Hue and Cry must be finished by two o’clock. After you’re done, go to Bow Street number four and find a dark-haired lad named Ernest. Tell him where your possessions are—he will fetch them after he delivers the Hue and Cry to the printer.”

“There is no need to make him gather my things,” Sophia protested. “I will go to the lodging house by myself at a more convenient time.”

“You are not to walk anywhere in London alone. From now on, you are under my protection. If you wish to go somewhere, you will be accompanied by Ernest or one of the runners.”

She didn’t like that—he saw the resentful flicker in her eyes. But she did not argue. Ross continued in a businesslike manner. “You’ll have the rest of the day to make yourself familiar with the public office and private residence. Later I will introduce you to my colleagues as they appear for their court sessions.”

“Will I also be introduced to the Bow Street runners?”

“I doubt you will be able to avoid them for long,” Ross said dryly. The thought of the runners’ reaction to his female assistant caused his mouth to tighten. He wondered if that was Sophia’s motive for working here. Women all over England had made the runners objects of romantic fantasy. Their imaginings were fueled by the ha’penny novels that portrayed the runners as heroic men of action. It was possible that Sophia wished to attract one of them. If so, she would not have to try hard. The runners were a randy lot, and all but one of them were unmarried.

“By the way, I do not condone any romantic involvements at Bow Street,” Ross said. “The runners, the constables, and the clerks are all unavailable to you. Naturally I will offer no objections if you wish to carry on with someone outside the public office.”

“What about you?” she startled him by asking softly. “Are you unavailable as well?”

Perplexed, hungering, Ross wondered what kind of game she was trying to play. He kept his expression blank as he replied, “Naturally.”

She smiled slightly as she went to the small, overladen table.

In less than an hour, Sophia had efficiently arranged and copied the notes in a neat hand that would delight the printer to no end. She was so quiet and economical in her movements that Ross would have forgotten she was there, except that her scent filtered through the air. It was a tantalizing distraction that he could not dismiss. Breathing deeply, he tried to identify the fragrance. He detected tea and vanilla, blended with the elixir of warm female skin. Stealing glances at her delicate profile, he was fascinated by the way the light moved over her hair. She had small ears, a sharply defined chin, a soft snippet of a nose, and eyelashes that cast spiky shadows on her cheeks.

Absorbed in her task, Sophia bent over a page and wrote carefully. Ross could not help but imagine how those adept hands might feel on his body, if they would be warm or cool. Would she touch a man with hesitancy or boldness? Her exterior was delicate, subdued, but there were hints of something provocative beneath… an intimation that she could be unmoored by sexuality, if only a man could reach deep enough inside her.

The conjecture caused Ross’s blood to stir faster. He damned himself for being so drawn to her. The force of his unspent passion seemed to fill the room. How strange that the past months, years, of celibacy had been so tolerable until now. Suddenly it had become unbearable, his accumulated hunger for a woman’s soft flesh, his need for a tender sheath clamped around his cock, a sweet, responsive mouth returning his kisses…

Just as his desire reached an excruciating pitch, Sophia approached his desk with the copies. “Is this how you like it to be done?” she asked.

He scanned them quickly, hardly seeing the neat lines of script. With a cursory nod, he handed them back to her.

“I’ll give them to Ernest, then,” she said, her gown rustling softly as she left. The door closed with a quiet click, affording him some much-needed privacy. Releasing an explosive breath, Ross went to the chair where Sophia had sat, his fingers coasting over its back and arms. Driven by primal urges, he hunted for any trace of warmth her hands might have left on the wood. He breathed deeply, seeking to absorb a lingering hint of her fragrance.

Yes, he thought with purely masculine agitation, he had been celibate for too long.

Although he was often tormented by his physical needs, Ross had too much respect for women to hire a prostitute. He had become well acquainted with the profession from the perspective of the magisterial bench, and he would not take advantage of such a woman. Moreover, the transaction would be a mockery of what he had shared with his wife.

He had considered the idea of marrying again, but he had not yet found a woman who seemed remotely suitable. The wife of a police magistrate would have to be strong and independent. And she would have to fit easily into the social circles his family frequented, as well as the dark world of Bow Street. Most of all, she would have to be satisfied with his friendship, not his love. He would not allow himself to fall in love again, not as he had with Eleanor. The pain of losing her had been too great, and his heart had been ripped in half when she died.

He only wished that the need for sex could be dismissed as easily as the need for love.

For decades, Bow Street No. 4 had served as a private residence, public office, and court. However, when Sir Ross Cannon had been appointed Chief Magistrate ten years earlier, he had expanded his powers and jurisdictions until it had been necessary to purchase the adjacent building. Now No. 4 served primarily as Sir Ross’s private home, while No. 3 contained offices, courtrooms, records rooms, and an underground strong room where prisoners were held and interrogated.

Sophia quickly made herself familiar with the layout of No. 4 as she searched for the errand boy. She located Ernest in the belowstairs kitchen as he ate a lunch of bread and cheese at a large wooden table. The dark-haired, gangly-limbed boy was afflicted with wild blushes as Sophia introduced herself. After she gave him the Hue and Cry, and asked him to retrieve her belongings from a nearby lodging house, the boy scampered away like a terrier after a rat.

Relieved to find herself alone, Sophia wandered into the dry larder. It was fitted with slate shelves that held, among other things, a round of cheese, a pot of butter, a jug of milk, and cuts of meat. The little room was shadowy and dark, silent except for the steady drip of water in the adjoining wet larder. Suddenly overcome with the tension that had accumulated inside her all afternoon, Sophia felt herself begin to tremble and shiver until her teeth chattered violently. Hot tears gushed from her eyes, and she pressed the length of her sleeve hard against the aching sockets.

Dear God, how she hated him.

It had taken all her strength and will to sit in that cluttered office“ with Sir Ross, appearing serene while her blood boiled with loathing. She had hidden her antipathy well; she thought she had even made him want her. His eyes had flickered with a reluctant attraction that he couldn’t quite hide. That was good; it was what she had hoped for. Because she wanted to do something worse than kill Sir Ross Cannon. She intended to ruin him in every way, to make him suffer until death would be preferable. And somehow fate seemed to be accommodating her plan.

From the moment Sophia had seen the advertisement in the Times, that an assistant was wanted at the Bow Street public office, a plan had sprung fully formed into her mind. She would obtain the job at Bow Street and thereby gain access to records and files. Eventually she would find what she needed to destroy Sir Ross’s reputation and force him to resign.

There were rumors of corruption surrounding the runners and their activities—reports of illegal raids, brutality, and intimidation, not to mention acting outside their described jurisdictions. Everyone knew that Sir Ross and his “people,” as he termed them, were a law unto themselves. Once an already suspicious public was given solid proof of their misconduct, the paragon known as Sir Ross Cannon would be ruined beyond redemption. Sophia would uncover whatever information was necessary to bring about his downfall.

But that wasn’t enough. She wanted the betrayal to be deeper, more painful than that. She was going to seduce the so-called Monk of Bow Street and make him fall in love with her. And then she would bring his world down around his ears.

The scalding tears abated, and Sophia turned to rest her forehead against a cool edge of slate, sighing shakily. One thought sustained her: Sir Ross was going to pay for taking away the last person on earth who had loved her. Her brother, John, whose remains were buried in a mass grave, mingling with the rotting skeletons of thieves and murderers.

Regaining her self-control, Sophia contemplated what she had learned of Sir Ross so far. He was not at all what she had expected. She had thought he would be a pompous, heavyset man, jowly and vain and corrupt. She had not wanted him to be attractive.

But Sir Ross was handsome, much as she hated to admit it. He was a man in his prime, tall and big-framed and a bit too lean. His features were strong and austere, with straight black brows shadowing the most extraordinary pair of eyes she had ever seen. They were light gray, so bright that it seemed as if the white-hot energy of lightning had been trapped inside the black-rimmed irises. He possessed a quality that had unnerved her, a tremendous volatility burning beneath his remote surface. And he wore his authority comfortably, a man who could make decisions and live with them no matter what the outcome.

Hearing the sounds of someone entering the kitchen from the door that led to the street above, Sophia ventured from the larder. She saw a woman not much older than she, skinny and dark-haired, with bad teeth. But the woman’s smile was genuine, and she was tidy and well kept, her apron washed and pressed. The cook-maid, Sophia surmised, giving her a friendly smile.

“Hullo,” the woman said shyly, bobbing in a curtsy. “May I help you, miss?”

“I am Miss Sydney, Sir Ross’s new assistant.”

“Assistant,” the woman repeated in confusion. “But you’re not a man.”

“No, indeed,” Sophia said evenly, surveying the kitchen.

“I’m the cook-maid, Eliza,” the woman offered, staring at her with wide eyes. “There’s another maid, Lucie, and an errand boy…”

“Ernest? Yes, I’ve already met him.”

Daylight shone through the casement windows, revealing the kitchen to be a small but well-fitted room with a stone-flagged floor. A brick-built stove with a cast-iron top and stone supports was mounted against one wall. Four or five pots could be heated at different temperatures at the same time on such a stove. An iron cylindrical roaster was set horizontally in the wall, the door flush with the brickwork. The design was so clever and modern that Sophia could not help exclaiming in admiration.

“Oh, it must be wonderful to cook in here!”

Eliza made a face. “I can manage plain cooking, as my ma taught me. And I don’t mind going to market or tidying up. But I don’t like standing at the stove over pots and pans—it never seems to come out right.”

“Perhaps I could help,” Sophia said. “I like to cook.”

Eliza brightened at the information. “That would be lovely, miss!”

Sophia surveyed the kitchen dresser with its assortment of pots, pans, jugs, and utensils. A row of tarnished copper molds hung from hooks on the side—they clearly needed a good scrubbing. There were other items that needed attention as well. The pudding-cloths and jelly bags stacked on a dresser shelf were stained and required soaking. The sieves appeared to be dirty, and an unpleasant smell emanated from the drain-holes in the sink, which had to be scrubbed with large handfuls of soda.

“We all eat in the kitchen—master, servants, and constables alike,” Eliza said, indicating the wooden table that dwarfed much of the room. “There is no proper dining hall. Sir Ross takes his meals here or in his office.”

Sophia gazed at a dresser shelf that contained spices, tea, and a sack of coffee berries. She strove to sound detached as she asked, “Is Sir Ross a good master?”

“Oh, yes, miss!” the cook-maid said at once. “Though he can be a bit odd at times.”

“In what way?”

“Sir Ross will work for days without a proper meal. Sometimes he will even sleep at his desk, rather than go to his own bed for a decent night’s rest.”

“Why does he work so hard?”

“No one knows the answer to that, p’rhaps not even Sir Ross himself. They say he was different before his wife passed on. She died in childbirth, and since then Sir Ross has been…” Eliza paused to search for an appropriate word.

“Distant?” Sophia suggested.

“Aye, distant and cold-natured. He tolerates no weakness in himself, and takes no interest in anything other than his duties.”