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?”

“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 she had 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.