Grace stepped to the side, keeping her eyes trained on his face. He did not look like a criminal, or rather, her idea of a criminal. His accent screamed education and breeding, and if he was not recently washed, well, she could not smell it.

“Or perhaps one of those dreadful young toads, stuffed into a waistcoat two sizes too small,” he mused, rubbing his free hand thoughtfully against his chin. “You know the sort, don’t you?” he asked Grace. “Red face, drinks too much, thinks too little.”

And to her great surprise, Grace found herself nodding.

“I thought you would,” he replied. “They’re rather thick on the ground, sadly.”

Grace blinked and just stood there, watching his mouth. It was the only bit of him she could watch, with his mask covering the upper portion of his face. But his lips were so full of movement, so perfectly formed and expressive, that she almost felt she could see him. It was odd. And mesmerizing. And more than a little unsettling.

“Ah, well,” he said, with the same deceptive sigh of ennui Grace had seen Thomas utilize when he wished to change the subject. “I’m sure you ladies realize that this isn’t a social call.” His eyes flicked toward Grace, and he let loose a devilish smile. “Not entirely.”

Grace’s lips parted.

His eyes-what she could see of them through the mask-grew heavy-lidded and seductive.

“I do enjoy mixing business and pleasure,” he murmured. “It’s not often an option, what with all those portly young gentlemen traveling the roads.”

She knew she should gasp, or even spit forth a protest, but the highwayman’s voice was so smooth, like the fine brandy she was occasionally offered at Belgrave. There was a very slight lilt to it, too, attesting to a childhood spent far from Lincolnshire, and Grace felt herself sway, as if she could fall forward, lightly, softly, and land somewhere else. Far, far from here.