The Maiden's Hand by Susan Wiggs

own?”
    “My honor is none of your concern,” Lark retorted. “Good night, my lord.” She looked pointedly toward the door.
    Oliver jumped up, glaring at the intruder. A breeze through the window caused the candle to flare, and at last he recognized the man. The heavy jowls. The soft eyes. The withered arm hanging at his side.
    In the private darkness of her room, Lark had been entertaining Dr. Phineas Snipes.
    “A married man at that,” Oliver said in disgust. “And his wife is a friend of yours, or so it seemed at the safe hold.”
    Lark and Snipes exchanged a glance—not one of lust or guilt, but of collusion.
    Comprehension hit Oliver like a slap in the face, leaving him relieved and oddly excited. “It’s your secret work, isn’t it? The work of the Samaritans.”
    Lark clasped both her hands around his. “Pray do not betray us, my lord. I beg you.”
    Lark. Begging. How he loved it.
    He was tempted to take advantage of her, to put a price on his silence, yet he found himself saying, “Of course I won’t betray you. I’ll help you.”
    She dropped his hand. Head down, eyes looking up through her lashes, she regarded him dubiously. “This is no romp to amuse an idle cove.”
    Her stab cut his pride. “Do you think I’m made of no more substance than that?”
    “You’ve given me no reason to suppose otherwise.”
    “He owes us a blood debt, Lark,” Snipes said quietly. “And Piers is nowhere to be found. That’s why I risked coming here.”
    “Who is Piers?” Oliver asked.
    “A river pilot. He is also a loyal man who specializes in a certain type of escape. We need him now, and we cannot find him. It’s sometimes necessary for our confederates to disappear from time to time.”
    “Then let me play his role.” Oliver was caught by the secrecy and urgency of the plan. “I won’t disappoint you.”
    “’Tis risky,” Snipes warned.
    “I thrive on risk. What was Piers’s specialty?”
    “Helping prisoners escape.”
    “From Newgate? By now I know every foul passage and oubliette of the place.”
    “Not Newgate,” Lark whispered.
    “Smithfield,” said Snipes.
    A swift image of sandpits and blackened stakes swept like a shadow through Oliver’s mind. “Ah, gross spectacle.”
    “Go back to bed, my lord,” Lark said, not unkindly.
    “I’m coming with you.”
    “What about your promise to Spencer?”
    “Kit will work on it while we’re away.”
    Lark and Snipes exchanged another long, considering look.
    He wanted to shake them both. “Why do you doubt me?” he demanded. “A ‘bit of blond London fluff’ indeed! Why do you think me a shallow, frivolous nobleman seeking the thrill of a daring escape?”
    “Isn’t that what you are?” Lark asked.
    “Do not believe everything you hear.”
    “I’ll remember that next time you lie to me,” she shot back.
    “You need me,” he said in his most imperative tone. “At the very least, you need my hands at the oars, since your pilot is missing.” He hiked his chin to a lofty angle. “If I fail at Smithfield, you can let me burn there.”
    “I like it not,” Lark said slowly.
    “You have no choice,” Oliver pointed out. “For if you leave me behind, who’s to stop me from divulging your plan?” He hoped they didn’t realize he would never betray them. He might be a bit of fluff, but he was a loyal bit of fluff.
    Their silence seethed with desperate indecision.
    He had them.
     
    To Lark’s annoyance, he did look rather dashing. True to his word, he had readied himself in haste and joined them at the river landing. He wore tall boots, fashionably slashed,the tops turned down just above the knees. His cloak was long and dark, and it gave off a rich rustle of silk when he moved. His sword rode discreetly at his hip—a quiet, elegant threat that a thief would not want to test.
    “You’re staring, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Is my codpiece unlaced?”
    Chagrined, she backed against a mooring post. In the swift