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“Shall we?” he asked. He stepped to her side, and his hands formed a pocket. It was no more than any groom would do for a lady. She gathered her skirts and gave him her foot. Just that, her foot nestled in his hands, sent a bolt of warmth through her that settled low in her belly. She gathered her wits. One spring from her, and he lifted her easily. It was a quick thing, a few seconds in the air before her bottom met the saddle and her legs found their usual positions hooked around the sidesaddle’s double pommel. Her feet searched for the stirrups, found them, and slid securely into place.

“I thought you had a black horse,” she said, squaring her shoulders and arranging her skirts, covering a little tremor in her nerves that really must be from the cold.

He stood looking up at her, one hand on Circe’s neck, as if his mind had wandered down some side path and left him standing there. The horses’ nostrils streamed vapor in the cool air of the April morning. Circe tossed her head at the delay, and Lynley seemed to come back to himself.

“At home,” he said as if there had been no gap in the conversation. “This fellow is one of Phil’s.” He remounted and gave the chestnut’s neck a pat. Obviously, an understanding already existed between them.

They walked the horses through the quiet streets to the park. In Emily’s ears the horses’ hooves struck loud enough against the stones to wake even those Londoners who had only just sought their beds after the night’s round of society gatherings. In the sleeping houses the servants would be up and about but pay them no heed. On the street a cart clattered by in a brief burst of sound, the driver intent on his own errand.

Emily resisted the impulse to hurry. Once or twice she peeked to see whether she could detect a grimace on his face. Even a walking pace would jar Lynley’s injuries. They entered the park by the northern gate and wound their way down to Emily’s favorite bridle path. The softer ground of the path turned the horses’ hoofbeats to muffled thuds in keeping with the stillness of the hour. When Circe began to fidget at the slow pace, eager for her morning release of spirits and energy, Emily risked a direct look a Lynley. He grinned back.

“Now we canter?” he asked. “Down and back?”

Emily glanced down the empty path and nodded, and he was off. Circe needed no coaxing to fly after the chestnut. The mist parted, trees blurred into a pale green curtain, dirt flew up under Circe’s belly. The park became a fairy park, green and enchanted, where no faces frowned, no voices intruded, as girl and horse flew by. Emily let herself get lost in the familiar pleasure of it, only surprised to discover Lynley and the chestnut falling into step beside them, the horses running like a matched pair.

At the far end of the path they wheeled and pulled up, and Lynley turned to her, an eyebrow quirked, a question in his glance. He knew what she and Circe wanted. Emily nodded and gave Circe her head, and off they went. It was mad, of course, even at such an hour, but Emily felt that she and Circe could go on forever.

Abruptly, Lynley caught Circe’s bridle straps and pulled the horses to a halt. Emily turned to complain, when she saw an elderly couple coming their way at a sedate pace.

Lynley bowed to them as they passed. “Good morning,” he said. “Please forgive poor Miss Radstock. Her horse ran away with her. So lucky I could be of assistance.” He assumed his amiable idiot voice.

Emily fixed a polite smile on her lips.

Once the elderly riders were out of earshot, he released Circe’s bridle.

“How are your ribs?” she asked him, conscious of the broken harmony of the moment before. They had been united briefly in that other park where Emily was most herself. Now they were back in London, where ladies did not gallop and gentlemen always took charge.

“Shaken,” he said through tight lips.

She shook her head. “You insisted.”

“I did. Now I insist that you make it worth my while.”

“What?” She spun toward him, and Circe danced a little.

“Let’s make a plan to catch a spy,” he said, his face all innocence.

“Oh, of course.”

“I have the guest list from Lady Ravenhurst’s party. I thought we might...study it. Over breakfast.”

“You’re inviting yourself to breakfast?”

He shrugged. “You wanted to catch a spy.”

* * * *

Though she knew in her head that she would find Lynley sitting at her mother’s breakfast table when she returned from changing her habit, his presence nevertheless sent a shock through her. He sat on the far side of the table, looking with undivided attention at a paper list, a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of an astonishing amount of food in front of him. As always, he dominated the space with his height and ease of manner.

He looked up briefly. “We start with Archer. Phil says he’s part of a fast set into gaming, sports, and women. Do you know any of his connections?”

Emily turned immediately to the sideboard. “Archer?” she asked, looking at the dishes of eggs and meat, toast and buns.

She set her plate at her usual place, where she’d sat alone for so long, looking out the window at the square, finding amusement in the comings and goings of her neighbors. Now he was her view.

He turned the list around and shoved it across the table for her to look at it. “Archer’s the fellow who carried off the gloves last night.”

Emily nodded and regarded the items on her plate, trying to see if anything looked appealing. Lynley’s presence interfered with her appetite.