Gentry came to her, taking the glass after she had downed half its contents. "In a minute you're going to be as drunk as a wheelbarrow."

"Does it matter?" she asked hoarsely, watching as he finished the brandy for her.

"I suppose not." As she swayed before him, he set aside the empty snifter and caught her waist in his hands. A self-mocking smile touched his lips. "God knows any woman would need to fortify herself after agreeing to become my wife."

A demanding thump rattled the door, and Lord Westcliff entered the room. His sharp gaze settled on the two of them standing so close together, and one thick brow arched quizzically.

Gentry's hands tightened on Lottie's waist as she tried to step away from him. "You may be the first to congratulate us," he told the earl, in a nasty parody of a gentlemanly announcement. "Miss Howard has done me the honor of bestowing her hand on me."

Lord Westcliff's eyes narrowed as he glanced at Lottie. "That is the third option?"

"As it turns out," she said unsteadily, "yes."

Lottie knew that the earl did not understand why she would be willing to make a bargain with the devil. Returning his gaze, she begged him silently not to request an explanation, as she would be unable to account for her reasons. She was tired of hiding, worrying, and being afraid. Nick Gentry had offered her sanctuary. He was unprincipled, callous, and worldly-exactly the kind of man who could protect her from Radnor. But all of that would not have been sufficient to compel her to marry him. One other factor had made the difference-her awareness that Gentry felt something for her. He was not able to hide it despite his efforts to the contrary. And against all better judgment, she wanted him. Or at least, she wanted the man he had pretended to be...the one who had stared at her with such desperate intensity as they'd stood by the wishing well...the one who had kissed her in the forest and whispered that he needed her.

Frowning, the earl came forward and reached for her. "I want a word with you, Lottie."

She nodded obediently, out of long-standing habit. "Yes, sir." When Gentry did not release her, she shot him a challenging gaze. "I haven't married you yet," she said beneath her breath. "Let me go."

His hands slid from her waist. Lottie went to the earl, who took her elbow in a light grasp and drew her with him to the corner. His respectful touch was strikingly different from Gentry's rampant possessiveness.

Lord Westcliff looked down at her, a lock of dark hair tumbling over his broad forehead. "Lottie," he said quietly, "you can't make such a decision without understanding more about the man you're giving yourself to. Do not be deceived by the fact that Gentry is a Bow Street runner. No doubt you think his profession imparts a certain sense of honor, even heroism. In Nick Gentry's case, the opposite is true. He is, and always has been, a figure of public controversy."

"In what way?" Lottie asked, glancing at the dark figure on the other side of the room. Gentry was drinking another brandy, pretending to inspect a row of books. The sullen curve of his mouth made it clear that he knew perfectly well what Westcliff was telling her.

"Gentry has only been a runner for the past two or three years. Before that, he was a crime lord masquerading as a private thief-taker. He ran an infamous corporation of thieves and was arrested numerous times for fraud, thievery, receivership, and manufacturing evidence. I can guarantee that he is acquainted with every criminal of note in England. Despite his apparent reformation, there are many who believe that he still has illicit dealings with many of his former cohorts in the underworld. He is not to be trusted, Lottie."

She tried to show no reaction to the information, but she was inwardly stunned. Glancing around Westcliff's broad shoulder, she viewed the Bow Street runner's menacing form as he lounged in the darkest corner of the study. He seemed more comfortable in the shadows, his eyes gleaming like a cat's. How could a man only in his late twenties have had such a varied career? Crime lord, thief-taker...what in God's name was he?

"Miss Howard...Lottie..." The earl recaptured her attention with a quiet murmur. "You must consider my proposal once more. I believe the arrangement would benefit us both. I give you my word that I would be a kind husband, and that you would want for nothing-"

"My lord," she interrupted earnestly, "I hope you will not regard my refusal as an indication of anything other than my great respect for you. You are the most honorable man I have ever known-and that is why I would never consign you to a loveless marriage. You cannot deny, my lord, that I would not be your first choice, were you seeking a wife. And if I did you the injustice of accepting your offer, we would both regret it someday. Mr. Gentry and I are far more suited to each other, as neither of us will regard it as a true marriage, but rather as a business transaction in which..." Her cheeks burned as she forced herself to finish. "In which one service is exchanged for another."

Westcliff's face was grim. "You're not cynical or hardened enough to tolerate such an arrangement."

"Unfortunately, my lord, I am indeed that hardened. Because of Lord Radnor, I've never had the hopes and dreams that many other women do. I've never expected to be happy in marriage."

"You still deserve better than this," he insisted.

She smiled without humor. "Do you think so? I'm not so certain." Breaking away from him, Lottie strode to the center of the study and stared at Gentry expectantly. She made her manner brisk. "When shall we leave?"

Gentry emerged from the corner. She saw from the flicker in his eyes that he had half-expected her to change her mind after speaking with Westcliff. Now that her choice had been reaffirmed, there was no turning back.

"Now," he said softly.

Her lips parted in the beginnings of an objection. Gentry intended to sweep her away without allowing any opportunity to say good-bye to anyone in the household, not even Lady Westcliff. On the other hand, it would be easier for her to simply disappear without having to explain anything to anyone. "Isn't it rather dangerous to travel at night?" she asked, then quickly answered her own question. "Never mind. If we met with a highwayman, I would probably be safer with him than you."

Gentry grinned suddenly. "You may be right."

His momentary amusement was wiped away by Lord Westcliff's crisp announcement. "If I cannot change Miss Howard's mind, I will at least require proof that the ceremony is legal. I will also demand evidence that she will be satisfactorily provided for."

Lottie realized that in all her considerations, she had actually not given a thought as to what kind of life she would have with Gentry. Good Lord. What kind of a living did a Bow Street runner earn? No doubt his salary was minimal, but surely with private commissions, he would make enough to live in a decent style. She did not require much-a room or two in a safe area of London would be sufficient.

"I'll be damned if I have to account for my ability to provide for my own wife," Gentry said. "All you need to know is that she won't starve, and she'll have a roof over her head."

The journey to London would last approximately twelve hours, which meant they would travel through the night and arrive in early afternoon. Lottie rested against the rich brown velvet upholstery of Gentry's well-appointed vehicle. Once they were on their way, Gentry moved to extinguish the small carriage lamp that illuminated the interior. "Do you want to sleep?" he asked. "It's a long time until morning."

Lottie shook her head. Despite her weariness, she was too agitated to relax.

Shrugging, Gentry left the lamp burning. He rested one of his legs on the upholstery, grimacing slightly. Clearly it was uncomfortable for a man of his size to be confined in a relatively small area.

"Is this yours?" Lottie asked. "Or did you hire it as part of your deception?"

Realizing that she referred to the carriage, he gave her a mocking smile. "It's mine."

"I wouldn't have thought a professional man could afford such a vehicle."

The runner played idly with the fringed edge of the little window curtain nearby. "My work requires frequent travel. I prefer to do it in comfort."

"Do you often use an assumed name when you go about your investigations?"

He shook his head. "Most of the time there is no need."

"I wonder that you didn't choose a better disguise," she said. "One that could not be disproved so easily. It did not take long for Lord Westcliff to discover that there is no Viscount Sydney."

A strange expression crossed his face, amusement interlaced with discomfort, and he seemed to engage in a silent debate about whether or not to tell her something. Finally his mouth twisted, and he let out a brief sigh. "Westcliff was wrong. Thereis a Viscount Sydney. At least, there is a legitimate successor to the title."

Lottie regarded him skeptically. "Who is he? And if what you say is true, why has he not come forward to claim his title and property?"

"Not everyone wants to be a peer."

"Of course they do! Besides, a peer isn't given the choice. One either is, or isn't. He can't deny his birthright any more than he can change his eye color."

"Damned if he can't," came his scowling reply.

"There is no need to be cross," Lottie said. "And you haven't yet told me who and where this mysterious viscount is, which leads me to believe that you're making it up."

Gentry changed position, shifting uncomfortably, his gaze carefully averted from hers. "It's me."

"What?Are you trying to fool me into thinking that you are some long-lost peer?You , a crime lord and thief-taker, are a secret viscount?" Lottie shook her head decisively. "I don't think so."

"I don't give a damn if you believe it or not," Gentry said evenly. "Especially when it has no bearing on the future, as I will never claim the title."

Lottie stared at his hard profile in astonishment. He certainly seemed to believe what he was saying. But how could it be possible? If there was any truth to his claim, how had a son of the aristocracy come to this turn? One did not begin life as a member of the nobility and end up as a...whatever he was. She couldn't keep from pelting him with questions. "You are John, Lord Sydney? The son of the Viscount Sydney who died twenty years ago, supposedly without an heir? Do you have any proof of this? Is there anyone who would corroborate it?"

"My sister, Sophia. And her husband, Sir Ross Cannon."

"The magistrate? The former head of Bow Street is yourbrother-in-law ?"

Gentry responded with a single nod. Lottie was utterly confounded. She supposed she had no choice but to believe him, since the story could easily be discredited if it were untrue. But it was so fantastical, so absurd, that she couldn't begin to make sense of it.

"I was seven years old, perhaps eight, when my parents died," Gentry explained gruffly. "Other than me, there were no male relatives who could lay legitimate claim to the title or lands. Not that there was much to inherit, as my father was in debt, and the estate was in disrepair. My older sister Sophia and I knocked about the village for a while, until she was finally taken in by a distant cousin. But I had become a hellion, and the cousin was understandably reluctant to take me under her roof. So I ran off to London, and became a footpad, until I was imprisoned for my crimes. When another boy died in prison, I took his name so that I could gain early release."

"He must have been the real Nick Gentry, then," Lottie said.

"Yes."

"And you took his identity and let everyone believe that you had died?"

A defiant gleam entered his eyes. "He had no more use for the name."

"But certainly later you must have thought about reclaiming your true name...your rightful position in society..."

"I have exactly the position in society that I want. And Nick Gentry has become my name more than it ever was his. I intend to let Sydney rest in peace." He smiled sardonically. "Sorry for the loss of prestige, but you're going to be known as Mrs. Nick Gentry, and no one save my sister and her husband will be aware of the truth. Do you understand?"

Lottie nodded with a puzzled frown. "I don't care about a loss of prestige. If I did, I would have married Lord Radnor."

"You don't mind being the wife of a commoner, then," Gentry said, watching her intently. "One with limited means."

"I am used to living in humble circumstances. My family is of good blood, but as I mentioned once before, we are poor."

Gentry studied the polished tips of his boots. "Lord Radnor was a damned stingy benefactor, if the condition of Howard House is anything to judge by."

Lottie inhaled swiftly. "You've been to my family's home?"

He glanced into her wide eyes. "Yes, I visited your parents to question them. They knew that I was searching for you."

"Oh," Lottie said in dismay. Of course her parents would have cooperated with the investigation. They had been aware that Lord Radnor wanted to find her, and as always, they had acceded to his wishes. The news should not have come as a surprise. And yet she could not help feeling betrayed. Had they taken even one moment to consider her interests, rather than Radnor's? Her throat tightened, and she could not seem to swallow properly.

"They answered every question in detail," Gentry continued. "I've seen the dolls you once played with, the storybook you drew in...I even know the size of your shoes."

Filled with terrible vulnerability, Lottie wrapped her arms around herself. "It seems odd that you have seen my family, when I have been away from them for two years. H-how are my sisters and my brothers? How is Ellie?"

"The sixteen-year-old? Quiet. Pretty. In good health, it seems."

"Sixteen," Lottie murmured, unsettled by the realization that her siblings had grown older, just as she had. They had all changed during the time they had been apart. Her head ached suddenly, and she rubbed her forehead. "When my parents spoke of me, did they seem to..."

"What?"

"Do they hate me?" she asked distractedly. "I've so often wondered..."

"No, they don't hate you." His voice became oddly gentle. "They're concerned for their own hides, of course, and they seem to entertain a sincere belief that you would benefit from a marriage to Radnor."

"They've never understood what he is really like."

"They don't want to. They've profited far more by deceiving themselves."