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She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

He stilled at that, his head still bent over her drawer. “What?”

“You saved my life the other night.” She pursed her lips, considering. “Or at the very least my virtue. And that of my cousin’s. I can’t think of why you might have done it, but thank you.”

He turned at that. “Why I might have done it? You were imperiled. Wouldn’t any man help?”

She smiled ruefully—and a little sadly. “In my experience, no.”

She thought he’d simply go back to searching her room, but he paused. “Then I’m sorry for your experience.”

And the odd thing was that she thought he meant it. She pleated the coverlet between her fingers. “Why do you do it?”

“Do what?” He rose and began on the top drawer.

That held her few personal possessions: old letters from Apollo from when he’d been sent away to school, a miniature of Papa, Mama’s earbobs, the gilt flaking off and one of the wires broken. Nothing of interest, except to her. She supposed she should feel resentment that a stranger was laying hands on her meager possessions, but really, in the larger scope of all the things that had happened in her life, this was quite a small indignity.

He stilled. “You’ve half a loaf of bread in here and two apples. Do they not feed you that you must steal food?”

She stiffened. “It’s not for me. And it’s not stealing—not really. Cook knows I took them.”

He grunted and resumed searching.

“Why do you don the disguise of a harlequin actor and run about St. Giles?” She cocked her head, watching him. His movements were economical. Precise. Yet, strangely graceful for a man. “You know, there are those who think you a ravisher of women—and worse.”

“I’m not.” He shut the drawer and glanced about her room. Had years spent hunting in the night made him able to see in the dark? She could hardly make out the outlines of her room and it was her own. He chose the old wardrobe next, a piece that had been replaced with something newer and finer in one of Brightmore House’s guest rooms. He opened the door, peering in. “I’ve never violated any woman.”

“Have you killed?”

He paused at that, before reaching into the wardrobe to move aside her spare day gown. “Once or twice. The men deserved it, I assure you.”

She could believe that. St. Giles was a terrible place. A place where people were driven by poverty, drink, and despair to the depths of a human soul. She’d read reports in her uncle’s discarded news sheets of robberies and murders, of entire families found starved to death. For a gentleman to venture into St. Giles night after night for years to confront the demons unleashed by man’s worst state… he must have more than a trifling reason. She very much doubted he did it for excitement or on a dare.

Artemis inhaled on the thought. What sort of man acted as he did? “You must love St. Giles very much.”

He whirled at that, and an awful, loud laugh broke from his lips. “Love. Dear God, you mistake me, ma’am. I do it not for love.”

“Yet the citizens of St. Giles are the ones who benefit from your…” She trailed off, trying to think of how to describe what he did. Hobby? Duty? Obsession? “Work. If, as you say, you don’t harm except those who deserve it, then those who live in St. Giles are the safer for what you do, surely?”

“I care not how my actions affect them.” He closed the door to the wardrobe with finality.

“I do,” she said simply. “Your actions saved my life.”

He was standing, looking about the room. There wasn’t much left: the mantel and her bedside table, both without anything to hide something in. “Why are you so concerned with my actions in any case?”

Even in his whispered voice he sounded irritable, and she supposed he had a right. “I don’t know. I guess that you’re a… novelty, really. I don’t usually have the occasion to talk to a gentleman at length.”

“You’re Lady Penelope’s relation and companion. I would think between balls, parties, and teas you’d have more than ample opportunity to meet gentlemen.”

“Meet them, yes. Have a true conversation?” She shook her head. “Gentlemen have no reason to talk to ladies such as I. Not unless their intentions are less than honorable.”

He took a step toward her, almost as if the movement was involuntary. “You’ve been accosted by men?”

“It’s the way of the world, isn’t it? My position makes me vulnerable. Those that are strong will always go after those they think are weak.” She shrugged. “But it isn’t often, and in any case I’ve been able to fend for myself.”

“You aren’t weak.” It was a statement, final and without doubt.

She found his conviction flattering. “Most would think me so.”

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