nape of her neck lifted.
“You are offended?” he asked softly.
“Certainly, given that your dreamprints indicate that you suffer from nightmares,” she said.
“What woman would want to feature in a man’s darkest, most unpleasant visions?”
He blinked. She knew she had surprised him. And then he started to smile. It was a slow, faint
twist of his mouth but she sensed that the flash of amusement was genuine.
“Do you know, Mrs. Pyne, I think that we are going to get on very well together, in spite of the
difference in our occupations and personal views.”
It was all too easy to believe that Griffin Winters was the direct descendant of a dangerous
alchemist. Adelaide told herself that her intense fascination with him was natural under the
circumstances. He was not only a man of strong talent, he was also powerful in other ways as
well. After all, he ruled a large portion of London’s criminal underworld. But none of those facts
explained the sparkling exhilaration she experienced in his presence.
He was not a handsome man but he was certainly the most compelling male she had ever
encountered. His eyes were darkly brilliant and gem-green in color. His near-black hair was cut
short in the current fashion. Sharply etched cheekbones, a high, intelligent forehead, an aquiline
nose and an unforgiving jaw came together in a way that suited the aura of power that he wore so
naturally.
There was something else about him as well: a sense of isolation, an abiding aloneness. Griffin
Winters was a man who harbored secrets and kept them close.
She could well imagine him at work in a secret laboratory, stoking the fires of an alchemical
furnace in search of arcane knowledge. Passion burned deep inside him but she sensed that it was
securely locked behind an iron door. Griffin Winters would never allow that side of his nature to
govern his actions. An oddly wistful sensation fluttered through her.
Don’t be an idiot, she thought. The man is a crime lord, for heaven’s sake, not a lost dog in
search of a warm hearth and a kindly hand.
“At least I now know why I felt obliged to hang on to the lamp all these years,” she said. “It
appears that I was waiting for the rightful owner to claim it.”
“Don’t tell me that you believe in destiny, Mrs. Pyne?”
“No. But I have a great deal of respect for my own intuition. It told me that I ought to keep the
lamp safe.” She turned to walk away down the gallery. “My carriage is waiting in the street. My
house is in Lexford Square. Number Five. I will meet you there. You shall have your lamp, Mr.
Winters.”
“And the woman who can work it?” he asked softly behind her.
“That remains to be negotiated.”
HE ARRIVED in an anonymous black carriage that carried no markings or other identifying
features. One would hardly expect a man in his profession to go about in a vehicle inscribed with
his initials or a family crest , Adelaide thought, amused.
She watched from the drawing room window as Griffin opened the door of the cab and got out.
He paused a moment, giving the square with its small park and respectable town houses an
assessing glance.
She knew what he was doing. During her years in the American West she had seen
others—lawmen, professional gamblers, gunfighters and outlaws—conduct the same quick
analysis of their surroundings.
Griffin Winters no doubt possessed any number of enemies and rivals, she thought. She
wondered what it was like living with the constant threat of violence. But he had chosen the path,
she reminded herself.
Griffin went up the steps of Number Five and knocked once.
Mrs. Trevelyan’s footsteps sounded in the hall. The housekeeper, excited by the unusual prospect
of greeting a visitor to the household, was hurrying.
The door opened. Adelaide heard Griffin enter the front hall. A strange excitement fluttered
through her in response to his presence in her home. She got the
“You are offended?” he asked softly.
“Certainly, given that your dreamprints indicate that you suffer from nightmares,” she said.
“What woman would want to feature in a man’s darkest, most unpleasant visions?”
He blinked. She knew she had surprised him. And then he started to smile. It was a slow, faint
twist of his mouth but she sensed that the flash of amusement was genuine.
“Do you know, Mrs. Pyne, I think that we are going to get on very well together, in spite of the
difference in our occupations and personal views.”
It was all too easy to believe that Griffin Winters was the direct descendant of a dangerous
alchemist. Adelaide told herself that her intense fascination with him was natural under the
circumstances. He was not only a man of strong talent, he was also powerful in other ways as
well. After all, he ruled a large portion of London’s criminal underworld. But none of those facts
explained the sparkling exhilaration she experienced in his presence.
He was not a handsome man but he was certainly the most compelling male she had ever
encountered. His eyes were darkly brilliant and gem-green in color. His near-black hair was cut
short in the current fashion. Sharply etched cheekbones, a high, intelligent forehead, an aquiline
nose and an unforgiving jaw came together in a way that suited the aura of power that he wore so
naturally.
There was something else about him as well: a sense of isolation, an abiding aloneness. Griffin
Winters was a man who harbored secrets and kept them close.
She could well imagine him at work in a secret laboratory, stoking the fires of an alchemical
furnace in search of arcane knowledge. Passion burned deep inside him but she sensed that it was
securely locked behind an iron door. Griffin Winters would never allow that side of his nature to
govern his actions. An oddly wistful sensation fluttered through her.
Don’t be an idiot, she thought. The man is a crime lord, for heaven’s sake, not a lost dog in
search of a warm hearth and a kindly hand.
“At least I now know why I felt obliged to hang on to the lamp all these years,” she said. “It
appears that I was waiting for the rightful owner to claim it.”
“Don’t tell me that you believe in destiny, Mrs. Pyne?”
“No. But I have a great deal of respect for my own intuition. It told me that I ought to keep the
lamp safe.” She turned to walk away down the gallery. “My carriage is waiting in the street. My
house is in Lexford Square. Number Five. I will meet you there. You shall have your lamp, Mr.
Winters.”
“And the woman who can work it?” he asked softly behind her.
“That remains to be negotiated.”
HE ARRIVED in an anonymous black carriage that carried no markings or other identifying
features. One would hardly expect a man in his profession to go about in a vehicle inscribed with
his initials or a family crest , Adelaide thought, amused.
She watched from the drawing room window as Griffin opened the door of the cab and got out.
He paused a moment, giving the square with its small park and respectable town houses an
assessing glance.
She knew what he was doing. During her years in the American West she had seen
others—lawmen, professional gamblers, gunfighters and outlaws—conduct the same quick
analysis of their surroundings.
Griffin Winters no doubt possessed any number of enemies and rivals, she thought. She
wondered what it was like living with the constant threat of violence. But he had chosen the path,
she reminded herself.
Griffin went up the steps of Number Five and knocked once.
Mrs. Trevelyan’s footsteps sounded in the hall. The housekeeper, excited by the unusual prospect
of greeting a visitor to the household, was hurrying.
The door opened. Adelaide heard Griffin enter the front hall. A strange excitement fluttered
through her in response to his presence in her home. She got the
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