My Favorite Thief (11 page)

“I cannot ask my father for it.”

“Why not?”

“Because he would want to know what it is for, and I can't tell him.”

“Why not?”

“That really isn't your concern, Lord Bryden.”

“You're right, it isn't. Unfortunately, Miss Kent, I am unable to help you, as I don't happen to have five thousand pounds at my disposal.”

She looked at him in dismay. “In the past several months you have stolen jewels that have been valued at thousands of pounds,” she pointed out. “It was detailed in the newspapers. Are you saying you have already spent the money?”

“Unfortunately, the figures reported in the newspapers are greatly exaggerated,” Harrison objected. “Secondly, stolen jewels never fetch their appraised value on the black market. That is part of their appeal. The dealers who buy them like to feel they are getting a rather spectacular deal, given the risks involved in purchasing them.”

“If you don't have the money, then I suppose you will have to steal it.” Charlotte shifted uncomfortably on the bench. She didn't like the idea of forcing him to steal, but it seemed there was no choice.

“I must confess, I find your attitude bewildering, given that you have devoted your life to reforming black-souled criminals like me. Do you believe I am completely beyond salvation?”

“I'm not interested in reforming you, Lord Brydon,” she informed him stiffly. He was toying with her, and she did not like to be mocked. “You are not a desperate child or a starving woman. You have not been forced to steal out of deprivation, in order to have a crust of bread to eat or decent boots for your filthy, blistered feet, or to provide food and shelter for your loved ones. You are an intelligent, educated man from a privileged background, who has made the decision to steal. No doubt when you started you had some reason that you felt was compelling enough, but I don't believe that after all these years those reasons still exist. You steal now either because you are addicted to the thrill of stealing, or because you live beyond your means and have to supplement your income. I don't know which it is, and unfortunately, I don't have time to care. I need five thousand pounds within three days' time, and I'm asking you if you will get it for me.”

“And just why, precisely, do you think I should do that?”

She bit her lip. There was only one reason she could give him that would be persuasive enough to make him give her the money. Even so, she hated having to resort to it.

“I helped you the other night, when you were trapped at Lord Chadwick's,” she pointed out. “Without my assistance you would have been arrested. Don't you think you owe me something for that?”

“Absolutely,” Harrison agreed. “I would think that I owe you something in the amount of a few hundred pounds, which I have already offered to give you. But five thousand pounds really does amount to blackmail. You do realize that, don't you?”

She regarded him miserably. “I suppose I do.”

“So, Miss Kent, if you are blackmailing me, you're going to have to tell me what it is you're going to do if I refuse to give you this money. I don't have much experience with this sort of thing, you understand, but I believe that is how it works.”

She lowered her gaze to her skirts, unable to look at him. “Unfortunately, I will be forced to go to the police and tell them that you are the Dark Shadow.”

She hated saying it. Harrison could see that. She had hoped he would just give her a bank note for five thousand pounds and that would be that. He studied her a moment, watching as her hands clutched nervously at the emerald silk of her gown. What in the name of God would require her to need such an enormous amount of money in such a short period of time? He didn't believe any bank would be demanding such a payment from her. First of all, the expenses of running that modest little house of hers could only amount to about five hundred pounds a year—a thousand pounds at the very most. Since she had only opened it recently, he did not see how she could be in any significant debt. Secondly, all the finances concerning her house would undoubtedly have been in Lord Redmond's name, which meant that any unpaid mortgages or loans would have been directed to him, not her.

What, then, had driven her to such a desperate act?

“Has someone threatened you?” he asked.

Charlotte avoided his gaze. Her father had been clear about what would happen if she told anyone about him. He would hurt her family. Her leg began to throb, reminding her that Boney Buchan was a man capable of inflicting great pain.

“No.”

She was lying. He could see it in the forced calm of her face. Anger began to uncoil within him.

“You're lying, Miss Kent. You're afraid of something—if not for your own welfare, then for the welfare of someone you care about. Has someone threatened one of the girls staying at your house? That one with the black eye—Annie—or the red-haired one—what the devil was her name?”

“You don't need to know why I need the money, Lord Bryden,” Charlotte told him. “All that matters is that I have to have it.”

“If someone is intimidating a member of your household, Miss Kent, you should contact the police. They can help you.”

“The police cannot help me in this matter.”

“But you believe I can.”

“I believe five thousand pounds can.”

“I don't know which I find more flattering—the fact that you thought I would have such an amount of money, or that you think I can easily steal it. Given my rather pathetic performance the other night, in which I not only failed to take anything of value, but also managed to attract a mob, be accused of murder, and get shot before being helplessly dragged away on the floor of your carriage, I'm actually surprised you think I can do this. To what do I owe this stirring expression of faith?”

“Until the other night, you were renowned for your thefts. All of London has been astonished by your ability to slip in and out of people's homes without being detected. If I hadn't interrupted you, the night would have ended very differently.”

“You're right. And if our paths had not crossed, just how, exactly, would you get the five thousand pounds you claim to so desperately need?”

“I don't know. I suppose I would have been forced to steal it on my own.”

She was serious, he realized, looking at her in amazement.

“You must know that I have stolen before—that I have even been jailed for it.” Her gaze fell to the mess of wrinkles she had inflicted upon her skirts and she gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “Surely you haven't managed to miss all of the furtive whispers about me and my tawdry background this evening, Lord Bryden. Our encounter at Lord Chadwick's has had the unfortunate effect of thrusting me into forefront of London's gossip.”

“I don't pay any attention to gossip, Miss Kent,” Harrison told her. “It is a vile sport that doesn't interest me.”

His eyes were dark and filled with emotion. There was anger swirling within their depths, and something more, a deeper, rawer sentiment she could not readily identify.

“Besides,” he added, shrugging, “whatever they say about you cannot be nearly as bad as what they are now saying about me. That is, unless I missed the part where you committed theft, abduction, and murder all on the same night.”

“You didn't murder anyone.”

“You are the only one who knows that.”

“Oliver knows as well. So does Flynn.”

“I can't tell you how comforting I find that. I am sure that if I am ever captured, the courts will find the testimony of a decrepit old man who probably can't see past his nose and an urchin thief most compelling.”

“Oliver is not decrepit, and Flynn is no longer a thief. And I would also testify on your behalf.”

“Forgive me if I find that less than reassuring, given that you are the one who is threatening to expose me.”

“I don't want to expose you, Lord Bryden. I just need the money.”

“Blackmail is an ugly practice, Miss Kent, whatever instigates it. And I'm afraid I don't respond well to being threatened.”

“There you are!” Annabelle's voice cut through the tension between them like a silvery bell, startling Charlotte. “We've been looking everywhere for you, Charlotte.”

Harrison adopted an air of polite amusement as he watched her sisters cross the terrace toward them in a rustling swish of silk and satin.

“Annabelle and Grace, may I present to you Lord Bryden,” Charlotte said, feeling guilty as she awkwardly rose from the bench. “Lord Bryden, these are my sisters, Lady Harding and Lady Maitland,” she added to Harrison, feeling hopelessly ill at ease.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lord Bryden,” said Annabelle, smiling.

“And for me also,” added Grace.

“Forgive me for stealing your lovely sister away from the ballroom, but I thought she might prefer the cool quiet of the garden while she talked to me about the important work of her refuge house,” explained Harrison smoothly. “I had no idea that running an asylum for the unfortunate could be so costly.”

“You can rest assured that whatever amount you donate, Charlotte will be sure to put to good use.” Annabelle smiled at her sister.

Grace nodded in agreement. “She has always been very careful when it comes to money—much more so than anyone else in our family.”

Harrison cast a faintly skeptical look at Charlotte. “Indeed.”

“Are you ready to leave yet, Charlotte?” asked Annabelle. “I don't mean to interrupt your conversation with Lord Bryden, but Jamie has summoned the carriage—”

“Actually, your sister and I had just finished our discussion, and I was about to escort her back into the ballroom,” Harrison interjected. He gallantly offered Charlotte his arm. “Shall we, Miss Kent?”

Reluctantly, Charlotte took his arm and permitted him to walk her and her sisters slowly back into the oppressively perfumed heat of the ballroom.

“It was a pleasure to meet you and hear all about the noble work you are doing, Miss Kent,” Harrison said, holding her hand against his arm. “I cannot help but be inspired by your commitment to helping the less fortunate, and by the extraordinary lengths to which you are willing to go to ensure that those who so desperately need your assistance are able to get it. It is really quite moving.”

He was mocking her again, Charlotte realized, feeling angry and desperate. She tried to extract her hand from his grip.

“In fact, I am so moved by your concern for the poor that I would like to do whatever I can to help you,” Harrison continued, keeping her hand firmly upon his arm. “If you give me a few days, I shall arrange for that donation we discussed. Hopefully it will be sufficient to take care of all your immediate expenses.”

Charlotte eyed him uncertainly. Had Lord Bryden just agreed to give her the entire five thousand pounds?

His expression was maddeningly contained, making it impossible for her to discern whether he was being truthful or merely toying with her.

“Thank you, Lord Bryden,” she said stiffly, trying to pull her hand away. “I am most grateful.”

“It is I who am grateful to you,” he assured her, still holding her fast. “After all, if you are able to reform even the most hardened and lost of souls at your house of refuge, it would seem there is hope for all us.”

His gaze was dark and unfathomable. But Charlotte knew he was mocking her. After all, she had just revealed herself to be no better than he, or any of the others who threatened and stole to get what they wanted.

“You're too kind,” she managed tautly, finally jerking her hand free from his grasp.

“It was also a pleasure to meet you, Lady Harding and Lady Maitland,” continued Harrison, bowing slightly to Annabelle and Grace. “I do hope I have the honor of seeing you both again.” He smiled at them and turned away, retreating back toward the doors leading to the terrace.

“Lord Bryden seemed very nice,” remarked Annabelle later as they drove home in their carriage.

“And it seems he is going to make a rather large donation,” Grace added, excited for Charlotte.

“That's splendid,” declared Jamie. “So you see, Charlotte, it was worth it for us to drag you to this affair after all.”

“Maybe now you'll be encouraged and attend more of them,” Simon suggested.

Charlotte nodded and sank back against her seat, exhausted.

She had only done what was necessary to protect her family, she told herself as the carriage rattled through the night. It was wrong—she understood that.

Unfortunately, sometimes the line between right and wrong was difficult to distinguish.

Chapter Six

H
E EXHALED A LONG, HOT BREATH AND HESITATED
before taking another, knowing it would be stale and reeking of camphor.

He wished to hell Lady Pembroke's maid had not been quite so diligent in her application of the foul-smelling compound, which was supposed to keep moths from attacking the woolen clothes and furs that had been relegated to that wardrobe for the summer. He began to count, timing how long he could go without air. Boredom had driven him to practice this trick while he waited, and he was actually becoming quite good at it. He flexed his fingers a half dozen times, fanning and rippling the appendages like a pianist. Then he slowly rotated his wrists, his shoulders, his neck, encouraging the flow of blood to the stiff, aching muscles. After his upper body had been sufficiently exercised he focused his attention on the lower, flexing the complex structure of bones in his feet and ankles, tightening and releasing the muscles of his calves and thighs, shifting his weight from one hip to the other in an effort to ease the tension that had mounted over the hours in his back. He wanted to crack the wardrobe door open to let in a hint of cooler air, but his unyielding discipline would not permit it.

Victory was in the details.

It was a lesson his father had taught him, and it was a lesson he had learned well. The door to the guest room he had chosen could open any time, as Miss Kent had so aptly demonstrated several nights earlier, revealing some earnest maid or footman who had been directed to fetch something, or to prepare the chamber for an unexpected guest, or to open the window to create more ventilation in the night's stifling summer heat. If a servant noticed the door to the wardrobe was ajar, that might entice him or her to walk over and inspect it.

Better to endure the heat.

His lungs were burning now, protesting their lack of oxygen. A painful band of pressure cinched his body, creating a pounding of hot blood in his face and skull as he fought the impulse to breathe. He could feel the veins of his neck swell and pulse in protest, the ramming of his heart against the muscled wall of his chest, the painful pleas of his rib cage as it struggled to fill itself.
Breathe,
his body urged, begging him to succumb to his weakness. His head was pounding and his ears rang with the sick, dizzying pressure of his lungs and veins and arteries. The darkness was getting heavier and he could no longer hear anything beyond a distant roar.

Just a few more seconds. Just a few more…

His body contorted like the lash of a whip and his mouth flew open, greedily inhaling a long draft of the wardrobe's sweltering air. He sucked it in quickly, efficiently, silently. After a moment, his lungs sufficiently sated, he sat back once again, no longer focused on the musty heat or the uncomfortable lack of space. He had managed to push himself beyond his previous limit without taking a breath.

It was a good sign.

He shifted his head from side to side, releasing the tension in his neck and upper spine, then held himself perfectly still, listening. It had been at least an hour since Lord and Lady Pembroke had departed in their carriage. In that time the servants had relegated themselves to the tasks that were required of them before their employers returned. Lady Pembroke's maid had likely tidied her mistress's bedchamber, straightening up and putting away all the brushes and pins and pots of cosmetics that had been pulled out to make her ladyship presentable. She had then probably arranged Lady Pembroke's dresser, emptied the slops from her washbasin and chamber pot, turned down her bed, laid out her night clothes, and put out the lamps. The evening was sufficiently hot that a fire would not be needed, so that had ended her responsibilities for the evening—at least until her ladyship returned. She would be summoned again at three or four in the morning to light the lamps, help her ladyship take off her gown, hoops, and corset, unpin her hair, remove and put away her jewelry, bring her fresh water for washing, and once again remove any slops. Until then, she would join the other members of the household downstairs in the kitchen, where they would share a meal, drink a little ale or gin, and gossip voraciously about their employers.

It was time for him to go to work.

He silently pushed open the wardrobe door, listening carefully. He heard nothing except the distant sound of raucous laughter. Obviously the servants had opened the gin. Good. He extracted himself from the wardrobe and stood a moment, letting his body adjust to the sudden profusion of space. Once he was certain he could move without stumbling, he stole along the richly patterned carpet and went to the door. He turned the handle slowly, carefully, preparing for a squeaking protest from either the knob itself or from the hinges on which the door rested. But some diligent servant had kept the hardware well oiled, and the door swung open in cooperative quiet.

He crept along the hallway to Lady Pembroke's bedchamber and pressed his ear against the door. Silence. He glanced down at the narrow strip of space beneath the door and the floor. Darkness. He laid his hand on the door handle and carefully eased the door open, hoping that the same conscientious servant had doused the hinges of this one with oil as well. They had.

He slipped into the room and shut the door behind him. Once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom he went directly to the window drapes, opened them, unlocked the window, then quietly eased it open. Because of the Dark Shadow's activities many of the wealthiest households in London had recently taken to locking their windows at night, despite the oppressive summer heat, as a way of protecting themselves. But the days were long and stifling, and since it would be unendurable to do otherwise, the windows remained open then. That gave him ample opportunity to slip inside before evening fell, and find some out-of-the-way niche in which he could hide. No one suspected the Dark Shadow might actually be lurking within their home for hours before he actually stole anything.

He glanced down at the narrow balcony below the window with its handsome stone balustrade, and the one after that, quickly assessing how he would creep along them to get to the Corinthian column that rose along the side of the front entrance. Once he reached it he would climb down, then jump below the street level to the area just in front of the kitchen door. Hidden from view he would remove his mask and cap and don the expensive hat and coat he had left wrapped in a bundle in the corner. Then he would light a cigar and calmly walk home, looking like nothing more than a perfectly respectable gentleman out for a stroll on a hot summer evening.

He moved to Lady Pembroke's dressing table, which was now bathed in the faint wash of moonlight streaming in through the window. An elegant arrangement of crystal jars and bottles were neatly grouped beside an engraved sterling silver brush, mirror, and comb set. No jewelry chest. Unperturbed, he began to methodically search each of her drawers.

Nothing.

Growing slightly irritated, he looked about the room. It wasn't on her night table, or on the elegantly carved writing desk situated in one corner of the boudoir. Obviously his thefts were having an effect on how the rich ladies of London stored their precious baubles. He stalked over to the bed, lifted the edge of the silk embroidered coverlet and felt under the mattress. Nothing.

He dropped to his knees and swept his arm beneath the bedstead, searching. It wasn't there.

He stood and gazed about the room, trying to think where else Lady Pembroke might have hidden her jewelry chest before going out. The excessively carved doors of her wardrobe caught his attention.
Of course.
She probably thought no one would think to search for jewelry in that ornate monstrosity. He moved toward it swiftly, eager to find the magnificent ruby-and-diamond necklace she had been wearing the previous night at the Marstons' ball. He knew she and her husband were only attending a small dinner party on this particular evening. He was counting on her vanity to have kept her from wearing the very same jewelry. No self-respecting woman of affluence wanted people to think her husband could only afford to give her one decent necklace. He grasped the handle of the wardrobe and silently eased it open.

A pair of booted feet rammed into his stomach, sending him flying back like an arrow.

“Good evening,” drawled his attacker. “I was beginning to worry that maybe you weren't coming after all.”

He inhaled a deep breath, fighting to master the pain in his gut, and looked up to see a veritable duplicate of himself standing over him. The man's face and hair were completely hidden by a black mask and cap. The rest of his clothes were dark, making him barely a shadow in the thinly lit room.

“I believe you are looking for this.” His attacker reached into his own pocket and withdrew Lady Pembroke's glittering ruby necklace. “And no wonder—it really is a spectacular piece. As someone who also appreciates the splendor of fine jewelry, I must commend you on your exceptional taste. I imagine it was at the Marstons' ball that you first noticed it, wasn't it?”

He regarded his assailant warily, saying nothing. He was not about to reveal himself because this reflection of him felt like chatting.

“You've been rather busy these past few months, haven't you?” the man continued. “Breaking into houses all over London, slipping in and out like a ghost. It's really been quite impressive. Unfortunately, however, your career as a jewel thief is over.” He dropped the necklace into his pocket, then pulled a length of rope from the other one. “Now be a good burglar and give me your hands.”

He sat up slowly, obligingly holding his fists together at the wrists. His captor bent to secure them with a rope.

Enabling him to smash both his fists into the arrogant prick's face.

The blow was hard, but so was his assailant. His head snapped back as his hands shot forward, grabbing him by his shoulders. A fist drove into his jaw, cracking his teeth together which such force he staggered into Lady Pembroke's writing desk. The delicately carved piece collapsed, smashing everything upon it. The acrid smell of kerosene from a shattered oil lamp filled the room. He knew in a moment or two the servants would come running. His assailant was on him again, growling with rage. He fought him hard, but his attacker was powerful and equally determined. They both went crashing to the floor, each scrambling to gain the advantage. Agitated voices were in the corridor now. He clawed ferociously at his would-be captor, tearing off his black cap and mask in the process.

“Bryden!” The word escaped his mouth before he could stop it.

Harrison's hand clamped around the Dark Shadow's wrist like a manacle, refusing to let him escape. “You can't get away,” he grated out furiously. “It ends here.”

The Dark Shadow relaxed slightly, his shoulders slumped in apparent defeat. He finally had him, Harrison thought, triumphant. It was over. The rush of adrenaline that had filled him a moment earlier began to seep away, making him acutely aware of every aching muscle and bone. He really was getting too goddamn old for this. Now he had to somehow explain his presence to the servants…

A blade whipped across his hand, slicing open his glove and the skin beneath. His hand contracted in a spasm of pain, causing him to let go.

“It's over for you, Bryden,” the man snarled. “Not me.” He drove his knee with savage force into Harrison's testicles.

Stars exploded all around him. For a moment he thought he would vomit. Instead he collapsed to the floor beside the bed, curled up like an infant and equally helpless.

The Dark Shadow pulled Lady Pembroke's necklace from Harrison's pocket and flew to the window.

“Stop, thief!” roared a servant from the doorway, unable to see Harrison as he pointed a quivering pistol at the figure in the window.

The escaping thief did not hesitate. He hurled his blade at the man, sending the speeding shaft directly into the poor servant's chest.

The pistol fired and a shower of plaster rained from the ceiling as the injured servant crumpled to the floor.

The Dark Shadow did not look back. With the agile grace of a cat he leapt over the windowsill and disappeared from Harrison's sight.

Harrison looked over to see the groaning man lying upon the floor, a scarlet stain weeping through the white of his shirt. There was nothing he could do for him, he realized bleakly, except pray the other servants would be able to fetch a doctor quickly. He had to get the hell out of there himself, before he was arrested for murder.

He dragged himself off the floor and staggered to the window, then heaved a leg over the sill.

“Oh, my God—
help!
” shrieked a voice behind him as another servant ventured fearfully into the room.
“Murder!! Murder!!”

Harrison did not look back. He moved clumsily along the narrow stone balcony in front of the window, then grunted as he shifted to the next one. He awkwardly made his way down part of the column beside the door, then gave up on the thing and jumped. His body crashed to the ground with a heavy thud, sending a streak of pain up one knee. He forced himself to get up and quickly limped down the street, then rounded a corner.