Pieter dropped them off at the corner of Ore Street, and they entered a bow-fronted coffeehouse directly across from the entrance to White Lion Yard. Georgie glanced around the dimly lit interior. She’d never set foot in a coffeehouse before, and this one appeared delightfully dingy. Clusters of patrons, from bootblacks to bewigged clergymen, lounged around rough wooden tables and argued noisily over the contents of the day’s newspapers. The strong scents of tobacco, coffee, sweat, and warm beer assaulted her nose.

Wylde thrust her into a vacant booth in the bay window and ordered two coffees from the bored-looking barmaid. Georgie stared down at the steaming brew with mingled disgust and delight.

“‘Black as hell, strong as death, sweet as love,’ as the old Turkish proverb goes,” Wylde murmured dryly. “Drink up.” He clinked his tankard against hers.

She took an experimental sip and discovered her fears were unfounded. The coffee was exquisite. She groaned appreciatively, then blushed as she caught Wylde’s intense gaze. Tension arced between them as she licked a drop from her lip, deliberately provoking, and enjoyed the way his jaw tightened. He desired her.

The knowledge of her newfound feminine power was like a drug. She wanted his hands on her, his mouth on hers, like a fever in her blood. Desire pooled low in her stomach. In a few short hours, this man was going to make her a woman. She would be a virgin no more. She couldn’t wait.

“Stop it,” he growled.

She shot him an innocent glance from beneath her lashes, her confidence bolstered by the fact that they were in a public place. It was safe to taunt him here. “So, now what?”

He tilted his head at the cluster of buildings opposite. “Now we watch and wait. This is the boring part of undercover work. I can’t tell you how many hours Seb, Alex, and I have spent sitting around waiting for someone or other to show up.”

And wait they did, for over half an hour. Georgie squinted through the grimy window, but there was no movement from the warehouse. There were no deliveries. Nobody went in or out. She puffed out her lower lip and blew the hair up from her forehead with a little gust of air. “This is dull.”

Wylde, who had availed himself of one of the crumpled, coffee-stained news sheets and proceeded to ignore her, tilted down the corner and peered at her. “I told you.” With a sigh, he flicked his long fingers and summoned one of the scruffy-looking potboys who were lounging near the fire.

“What’s to do, guvn’r?”

He tilted his head across the road. “See that building there? Go and knock on the door. If someone answers, ask for Mr. Keating. There won’t be any Keating there, so say you must have been given the wrong address. Then come back here.”

“Woss in it fer me?” The boy sniffed.

“A shilling.”