Emily Spenser sighed after the figure of her last departing customer. Mrs. Wiggins might be a nouveau riche, name-dropping mushroom, but at least her closeness to her middle-class roots led her to pay her bills on time. Unlike most of the Upper Ten Thousand who frequented her shop.

      Emily dropped into the chair behind her small desk and pulled out a bag, inserting Mrs. Wiggins’s money. She could hear Francesca bustling about overhead, singing softly in Portuguese as she fixed her mistress’s tea. Maybe a warm drink would soothe her jangled nerves.

      Not as much as a few dozen more clients with ready cash would, she thought ruefully. She much preferred hard coin to the heated glances of that last titled gentleman. Indeed, she wished fervently that Lady Cheverley herself had collected the purchase. Her ladyship, though of impeccable ton, always paid upon delivery.

      He’d surprised her, though, Lady Cheverley’s son. Given the still-youthful beauty of the mother, Emily had been expecting a mere stripling. Certainly not the tall, broad-shouldered gentleman who’d seemed to fill her little office, dwarfing her and his surroundings, while his smoky gaze hinted at far-from-juvenile pleasures.

      An altogether arresting man, she admitted, assuming one was susceptible to that sort of thing. Which, of course, she was not. Nonetheless, a sudden vision of the fiery sparkle in a pair of dark blue eyes sent a little chill skittering down her spine. One that was but a faint echo of the…she refused to put a name to the sensation that had seized her when he’d first gazed at her, when she’d casually touched his sleeve.

      In any event, she should mistrust such looks. What she required was honest payment for her labors, not another dose of the degrading innuendo she’d already endured from others of Lord Cheverley’s ilk. Though she’d mastered the art of masking her outrage and gracefully turning such remarks aside, the insult of those veiled offers still rankled.

      Resolutely she looked back to the ledger. Neat figures recorded the sums demanded for buckram padding, felt stuff, straw and lace, trims of feathers, silk tassels, satin and cording. When she’d calculated the amount necessary to run her millinery business, she’d not envisioned a clientele of fashionables who seemed more willing to wager their blunt on silver loo and faro than to pay their haberdashers.

      Well, she’d simply have to retrench. She’d not survived long bitter months in that Portuguese village watching Andrew die by inches, then a year of painting aristocratic portraits across the length and breadth of Spain, only to succumb to despair a few bare months after returning to England.

      Somehow they would earn enough to pay Drew’s tutor and save for his eventual tuition at school. Drew, the best and most beautiful reminder of her life with Andrew. The image of her son’s face, mischievous light glowing in green eyes so like his papa’s, warmed her troubled heart and sent the gray tide of grief and worry receding. A bittersweet backwash of longing followed.

      With resignation she quelled it. Having him here with her was impossible, she knew. An aristocrat’s son who would one day return to an aristocrat’s life could not live over a shop. Reminding herself of that fact each Sunday as she left after a too-brief visit at the genteel home of his tutor, Father Edmund, did little to ease the ache of loss.

      Best, she told herself briskly, that she cast off maudlin thoughts and concentrate on her task: ensuring their survival, stockpiling funds and keeping Drew hidden from the threat that would rip from her even those precious few hours with him.

      The tinkling of the entry bell interrupted her. Though she’d neglected to bolt the door, ’twas past regular business hours, and she wondered which tardy customer was paying her a visit. Hopefully one with pockets full of sovereigns, she thought as she summoned a welcoming smile.

      Before she could exit her office, a burly figure entered. Her smile faded.

      “Mr. Harding,” she said in a chilly voice. “Your employer requires something? The next rent payment isn’t due for a sennight.”

      “’Afternoon, ma’am.” Short, stocky, with hulking shoulders and a barrel chest, Josh Harding ambled toward her. She stepped away from his advance across her cramped office, until he had her backed up against her desk.

      His insolent leer as he deliberately looked her up and down made her fingers itch to slap his face. “No, it ain’t rent time, but being a business lady—” he gave the word scornful emphasis “—ya musta’ learnt there’s other expenses to keepin’ a shop healthy. Like makin’ sure ya gets protected from the raff ’n scaff what might try to rob honest folk.”

      Emily thought of the cash bag on the desk behind her. “Indeed? I was assured ’twas a fine neighborhood. The high rent certainly supports that conclusion. Did your employer dissemble when he assured me ’twas so?”

      Mr. Harding grinned, showing a gap between uneven, tobacco-stained teeth. “Even in fine neighborhoods, ya needs protection. My boss means to see ya gets it—for a small fee, a’ course. He figures annuder ten pounds a month should do the trick.”

      “Ten pounds a—!” Emily gasped. “’Tis preposterous! Rather than pay such a price, if protection is truly needed, I shall unearth my late husband’s pistol and provide it myself! Thank your employer for his kind offer, but I couldn’t possibly afford it.”

      “Mayhap ya can’t afford to be without.” Harding stepped to her worktable, reaching out to stroke the satin and velvet of an incomplete hat. She bit back the command that he keep his grimy hands off it.

      “Things…happen sometimes, to them what don’t get protection,” he was saying. “Didya hear about that dress shop over on Fiddler’s Way? Burnt to the ground last week. Lost ever’thin, poor wench what owned it. Thought protection come at too dear a price, she did. Deal of a lot cheaper than starting over, though, I ’spect.”

      Emily stiffened. “I believe what you’re suggesting is called extortion.”

      Mr. Harding shrugged. “Never much on book learnin’.”