Free Your Wicked Heart by Meredith Duran

money? He say, he was robbed in Syra.” The inspector tsked. “Syrosians. Do not trust them. Why, the taverna you visited, it is very popular with Syrosians—”
    Spence’s thoughts began to spin. “ Robbed, you say?” Was Charles wandering, destitute, a thousand miles from home?
    “Robbed,” agreed the inspector. “Rule Britannia, what?”
    “So what happened to him?” asked Miss Thomas. “Where did he stay?”
    How eager she seemed to know the details.
    And no bloody wonder. She had Charles’s ring, didn’t she? After Charles had been robbed . Had Charles been robbed by her ?
    In the moment of shock that followed that thought, Spence realized how fully he’d come to believe in her innocence.
    But why ? What evidence had inspired him? The soft pink curve of her mouth? His weakness for her crocodile tears? Her easy sympathies for an impertinent cabin boy—a boy, now he thought on it, who had been caught thieving for her !
    For these flimsy reasons, he had come to think of her as blameless.
    He had taken her side, and begun to doubt his cousin.
    He stared at her, barely attending to the inspector’s reply. No, Mizzi assured Miss Thomas, he had not troubled the gentleman with too many questions; had only told Mr. Smith (ridiculous pseudonym; that lack of creativity did sound like Charles) that he, the inspector, had every sympathy for hapless victims of Syrosian thugs, and every fondness for the good men of the British Empire, tallyho!
    And as this monologue spilled out, Spence felt himself sink deeper into disgust, for despite the obvious evidence before him—Charles robbed; Amanda Thomas caught with Charles’s ring— despite this plain picture of guilt, everything in him still wanted to believe her innocent. His instincts fairly screamed to him: She is not guilty!
    His instincts had never failed him before. But what if his own faith in her was simply the product of her criminal skill?
    “But you look troubled,” the inspector observed to him. “Is this Mr. Smith a friend?”
    “Yes,” said Spence.
    Miss Thomas shot him a queer look, no doubt puzzled by his claim to know his impostor. In the lamplight, her blond curls formed a halo around her face, an angelic effect further pronounced by the high color in her full, round cheeks.
    The most dangerous creatures were often the most alluring. Bright colors, irresistibly touchable beauty: nature’s bait for the unwary fool.
    He turned away from the sight of her, focusing squarely on the inspector. “Yes,” he said, “I know him. You truly have no notion of whether he remains on the island?”
    The inspector shrugged. “Oh, he was made happy, in the end. Sold a pair of cuff links for passage on the Malveron —this very morning it left. I made a solemn promise: if I catch word of a Syrosian thief, I will send him to justice, British style!”
    The inspector gave a violent chop of his hand, suggesting a very peculiar understanding of British justice.
    “The Maltese way,” added the inspector, “is not so kind.”
    Now Spence did look toward Miss Thomas—deliberately, letting her see the dark thoughts in his face.
    She frowned as though puzzled—as though she could not guess that he might, at this very moment, say, Your Syrosian thief stands right here, Mizzi. Take her. Show her how the Maltese treat a criminal.
    But perhaps she knew him better than he knew himself. For even as he recognized the temptation, it revealed itself to be clawless. Fleeting.
    If she was a thief, he would hand her over, all right—but to British justice alone.That way, he would have the satisfaction of watching her suffer the consequences.
    “Before you go,” said Mizzi, “I hope you will permit me to make sure yourpassports are in order?” Waving his hand, he beckoned in one of his men, who bore a tray of steaming cups. “And you must also tell me what you think of our local tea.” He fixed Spence with a steely smile. “What say, old boy? Mind you, I will insist on