My Favorite Thief (22 page)

When he was barely in his fifties, the former earl had begun to exhibit some rather bizarre behavior. Ultimately, it was widely rumored that he was suffering from some form of premature dementia, perhaps brought on by syphilis. Unfortunately, at the time Lord Bryden was still sufficiently in command of his faculties to appear capable of administering his estates. This resulted in his investing his entire fortune in a rather risky venture, which subsequently collapsed, virtually wiping him out. His lordship was then forced to liquidate many of his assets, including properties in Somerset and Norfolk, and a formidable art and jewel collection. Unfortunately, this did little to stabilize the family's ruined financial situation. Despondent and of an increasingly feeble mental state, his lordship finally shot himself, just three days shy of his fifty-sixth birthday. His eldest son was thrust into the position of earl at the relatively tender age of twenty-four.

It was tragic, mused Lewis, but not highly unusual. History was full of drunken or dotty fathers who managed to obliterate their family's wealth before they died. What was atypical in this case was the remarkable ability of young Lord Bryden, who until the moment of his father's death had been something of a wastrel, to consolidate what little remained of his assets and rebuild his family's fortune. In the span of a few short years, the new earl had somehow been able to raise enough equity to make investments that began to show extremely profitable returns. His father's debts were cleared. The family's remaining homes were well kept and even expanded upon. His lordship even sought out some of the artwork that had previously been sold to satisfy his father's debtors and bought it back, at many times what the buyers had paid his father. Given how dire his financial situation was reputed to have been, Lord Bryden's rise to riches again was nothing short of extraordinary. Over the course of a year or more, young Lord Bryden had either begged, borrowed, or stolen sufficient funds to make the investments that would put his family firmly back upon the privileged list of English society.

It was the year that captured Lewis's attention.

The Dark Shadow had been stealing jewels all over London for several months now. At first, it was assumed that the initial thefts were unrelated. But as more thefts occurred and it became evident that they were linked, London society dubbed the thief the Dark Shadow, after a daring thief who had terrorized London's bejeweled society for approximately a year, beginning in the summer of 1859. What was unique about those robberies was the fact that no jewelry chest or safe was ever emptied; as was the case presently, only select items of considerable value or beauty were stolen. None of the pieces were ever recovered. And then, abruptly, the break-ins stopped. It was assumed that the Dark Shadow had been captured and jailed for some lesser offense, or perhaps he had died or been killed. The most popular theory was that he had gone into luxurious retirement in some villa on the Mediterranean.

Or maybe, mused Lewis, staring at the ring of amber still glowing faintly around the drapes of Lord Bryden's study on the main floor, he had just become so successful he had no longer needed an alternate source of income.

The handkerchief remained problematic. It struck Lewis as almost inconceivable that the man who had been cleverly slipping in and out of the homes of London's aristocracy and disappearing into the night would suddenly become so careless that he would drop a monogrammed handkerchief at a crime scene. The Dark Shadow was no fool. Neither, apparently, was Lord Bryden. Why would he even take such an item with him when he was about to commit one of his crimes? Was he baiting the police, perhaps daring them to catch him? Did he on some level even want to be caught? Lewis was well aware that many criminals enjoyed the sport of outwitting the police even more than they enjoyed performing their actual crimes. It was entirely possible that the Dark Shadow had grown weary of staying so far ahead of the police, and had decided to toss a clue in front of them as a way of making the game more interesting—or even to bring it to an end. Or was the explanation something far more mundane? Had Lord Bryden's valet placed the handkerchief in the coat he had chosen to wear that night, without his lordship's knowledge? Or had Lord Bryden merely been in the vicinity of Lord Pembroke's home that night, and dropped the handkerchief quite innocently? Was the fact that the Dark Shadow had last been active in the same year that young Lord Bryden had been frenetically trying to raise funds to hold his estates together and support his understandably distraught mother, younger brother, and sister, merely a coincidence?

Lewis carefully placed the wrinkled square of fabric back in his pocket. It was possible.

The appearance of Miss Kent at Lord Bryden's house in the middle of the night, however, made the possibility of mere coincidence highly improbable.

Chapter Ten

G
OOD MORNING,
H
ARRY,” SAID
L
ADY
B
RYDEN, SAILING
into the dining room. “I'm glad I found you before you went off—we have much to discuss—good gracious, is that coffee you're drinking?”

Harrison looked up from his newspaper and eyed his mother carefully, trying to ascertain her state of mind. “Good morning, Mother. How are you feeling today?”

“Really, Harry, what on earth has gotten into you? If your father finds out you are in here reading his paper and drinking his coffee, he will be quite annoyed, I can assure you.”

“Father isn't here, Mother,” Harrison told her.

“That is no excuse, and you know it,” Lady Bryden returned firmly. “Telford,” she said, fixing her gaze upon him, “would you be kind enough to bring my son a cup of tea, with plenty of milk and sugar in it? And perhaps one of Mrs. Shepherd's lovely cinnamon buns—the ones with the sticky syrup on them. Harry just loves them.”

Telford regarded Harrison helplessly.

“That won't be necessary, Telford,” Harrison assured him. “I've finished breakfast, Mother. I'm just about to go out.”

“Really?” Lady Bryden regarded him uncertainly, confused that she did not know her son's itinerary for the day. “Where?”

Harrison hesitated. In fact he had an appointment that morning to meet with his barrister and solicitor, to finalize the details of liquidating some of the shares he held in three different companies. When he went to him the previous day, his solicitor had advised him not to sell, as the companies were still relatively young and had not nearly reached their full potential. Unfortunately, time was a luxury Harrison could ill afford. If all went well, he should have the money in hand within a few days.

Then he would meet Charlotte and determine how they were going to give the money to her father in exchange for young Flynn.

Guilt clawed at his belly. He had been tormenting himself endlessly over what had happened between him and Charlotte two nights earlier. Harrison understood that his mind had been clouded from the effects of both his headache and the laudanum he had dosed himself with prior to Charlotte's arrival. Even so, what he had done was appalling. Charlotte had come to him frightened, alone, seeking his help and guidance and support, because on some level he barely understood, she trusted him. And he had taken advantage of her. There was no way to paint it any plainer than that. He had used his considerable experience to seduce her when she was most vulnerable. He had eased her back and buried himself deep inside her, taking her in a frenzy of passion as if she were some common harlot who had dropped by to service him.

Self-loathing poured through him, intensified by the sudden hardening between his legs. What the hell was the matter with him?

“Harry? Are you all right? You suddenly look ill.”

“I'm fine,” Harrison assured his mother, forcing himself back to the present. “I'm meeting a friend for lunch,” he added, in answer to her previous question.

“Who?”

“His name is Lawrence.” Harrison was never certain how much information to give his mother during these exchanges. Sometimes she easily accepted whatever he told her with nothing more than a perfunctory nod, while other times she became fixated upon some seemingly inconsequential detail and worked herself into a near frenzy over it.

“Is that Lord Shelton's son?” she enquired, drawing her finely shaped brows together. “The one who is afraid of horses?”

Harrison debated whether or not to correct her. Ultimately he decided it was easier for his mother to have an image in her mind of whom he was going to see than not. “The very same,” he lied.

“Then you must be sure to invite him to your party, Harry,” she declared enthusiastically. “I promise you it is going to be great fun. We're going to have all kinds of lovely games on the lawn, and ice cream and cakes, and ponies…” She stopped suddenly, frowning. “You don't think poor Lawrence will be sick when he sees them, do you? That's what happens to him, you know. He simply throws up everywhere the minute he gets near a horse. His parents have tried everything to make him stop. They've even taken him to a doctor who suggested it might be the smell of the animals that was offending him so. So his nursemaid tied a scented scarf around his face to try to mask the smell, but that only caused him to vomit all over the scarf, poor thing, which I'm sure he found most upsetting.”

“I believe he has gotten over his fear of horses, Mother,” Harrison assured her.

“Well, that's a relief to his parents, I'm sure. A gentleman can't have much of a life if he cannot bring himself to mount a horse without getting sick all over the place. People tend to notice that sort of thing.”

“To say nothing of the poor horse,” quipped Tony, striding into the dining room.

“Mr. Poole,” said Telford, startled by Tony's sudden appearance, “how did you get in?”

“The front door was left slightly ajar. I called hello, but nobody answered, and I could hear all of you chatting away in here, so I thought I'd just save you the trouble of answering the door and come on in. Good morning, Lady Bryden,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “I must say, you look particularly lovely this morning. You seem to get younger and more radiant every time I see you.”

“Mother, you remember my friend Tony Poole,” said Harrison, seeing confusion cloud his mother's eyes as she stared at her young admirer. “He has been a visitor here many times.”

“Yes, of course.” Lady Bryden smiled politely. “How are you, Mr. Poole?”

“Just wonderful, thank you, Lady Bryden,” said Tony, seating himself at the table. “Now Harry, you really let me down last night, I'm afraid. There I was at the Fenwicks' ball, telling everyone that you had sworn to me that you were going to attend, and then you never showed up, you coward. Lady Elizabeth was shadowing me all night, and every time she appeared she had a different fool dangling on her arm. I think she wanted to be sure that when you finally arrived you would see that she was having a marvelous time without you. While she seemed gay enough early on, as the hour grew later and the fellows traipsing around after her got progressively younger and more pitiful, you could almost feel the irritation seething from her across the room. By the end of the evening she was desperate enough to accept a dance from Lord Beckett's bran-faced son, and he barely comes up to her shoulder—she spent the entire time trying to keep him from bumping his nose into her chest!” He laughed.

“Why, Harry, did one of your friends give a party yesterday?” asked Lady Bryden.

“There was a gathering at Lord and Lady Fenwick's,” Harrison replied.

“Why didn't you go?”

“I didn't feel like going out.”

“Really, Harry, this shyness of yours just won't do,” Lady Bryden chided. “You have to make yourself go out, and once you are there I'm certain you will find that you will have a wonderful time.”

“I'm sure you would have, Harry,” Tony agreed, rising from the table to inspect the feast of breakfast foods laid out on the marble-topped sideboard. “Lady Whitaker was there, and everyone was fawning all over her because her husband had just purchased a magnificent diamond necklace for her from some jewel dealer he met from Belgium,” he recounted, heaping a selection of meats and rolls onto his plate. “The stone at the center of the necklace is apparently quite well known—it is called the Star of Persia, or some such thing. People were saying it once belonged to an empress, and that it is unspeakably valuable because of its clarity and its unusual shade of pink. It aroused such fascination that it was even mentioned in the
Morning Post
this morning, if you can believe that,” he finished, chuckling. “That just shows you just what a dull night it was.”

Lady Bryden dropped her teacup, spilling its contents all over the table.

“Let me help you, my lady,” offered Telford, rushing forth with a napkin.

“Leave it!” Lady Bryden's entire body was rigid as she fixed her gaze on Tony. “I believe, Mr. Poole, that you must be mistaken.” Her hands gripped the table as she spoke, as if she were struggling for support. “The Star of Persia belongs to me. It was a gift from my husband on the night that my darling Harry was born. Although I seldom have an opportunity to wear it, it is a gift I nonetheless cherish deeply. I would never sell it, ever. It is a precious heirloom, and an irreplaceable memento of the birth of my first child. I plan to give it to Harry when he grows up, so that he may present it to his wife when she bears their first child. So you see, Lady Whitaker could not possibly have been wearing it last night. Whatever Lord Whitaker purchased may have been very exceptional, but it was most assuredly not the Star of Persia.”

Tony glanced uneasily at Harrison.

“Of course you are right, Mother,” Harrison agreed, his voice low and comforting. “Lord Whitaker probably bought something that merely resembled the Star of Persia, and people got confused about its history. Either that or the dealer lied to him about the stone. Either way, you have nothing to worry about. Your necklace is perfectly safe.”

She nodded, but her gaze was panicked, as if she didn't know whether or not to believe him.

“Would you like to see the necklace?” she asked Tony. “I can get it for you if you like. It will only take a moment.”

Again, Tony stole a glance at Harrison, whose eyes told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to accept her offer.

“Perhaps another time,” Tony said amiably. “These sweet rolls look absolutely delectable, Telford,” he remarked, changing the subject. “You must tell Mrs. Griffen I simply adore her baking.” He piled two of them onto his plate and returned to the table, where he tucked into his meal with great enthusiasm.

“Mother, would you like some more tea?” Harrison could see that she was still upset by the mention of her necklace.

“No, thank you, Harry.” She released her grip upon the table and stood. “I really must get back to organizing your party.” She managed a forced smile. “Has Harry told you about it yet, Mr. Poole?”

Again Tony looked to Harrison for guidance. Harrison gave him a slight nod.

“Yes, Lady Bryden, he did,” Tony assured her. “It sounds like it's going to be wonderful.”

“And can you come?”

“Nothing could keep me from it.”

“Splendid. Well, then, I must get to work writing the invitations. You boys eat—but no coffee, Harrison, is that clear? It isn't good for you.”

“Yes, Mother. Where did you want to write your invitations?”

“Why, I thought I would work on them at my desk in my room. Why?”

“Telford will see you upstairs, then.”

“Really, Harry, that isn't at all necessary. Telford has better things to do than escort me around the house. I'm not an invalid, you know, and I'm quite aware of where my own chamber is.”

“Actually, your ladyship, I was just about to go upstairs anyway,” Telford assured her.

Lady Bryden regarded him suspiciously. “Why?”

“I need to fetch something from Lord Bryden's wardrobe,” he quickly improvised.

Because of his mother's condition, Harrison preferred to keep his staff to a minimum, and therefore he did not employ a valet. Fewer servants meant he could afford to pay the ones he did have better wages, which made them less apt to seek employment elsewhere. Loyalty and discretion were important to him. He did not want servants who came and went and then gossiped to others about his mother's fragile state of mind. Also, he had learned over the years that his mother did not tolerate change very well. She needed routine and familiar surroundings and people in order to function well.

In that respect, her illness resembled the senility that had gradually broken the mind of her husband.

“Very well, Telford, if you are planning to go upstairs anyway, then you may accompany me—although I really don't feel it is necessary.” She smiled at Tony once more. “Very nice to see you again, Mr. Poole. I shall look forward to seeing you at Harry's party.”

“And I look forward to attending,” Tony assured her, politely rising from his seat. “I'm sure it's going to be grand.”

Harrison also rose from his chair as his mother left the room. When she and Telford were gone, he sank back down and took a final swallow of his coffee.

“Did Lady Bryden really own the Star of Persia?” asked Tony curiously.

Harrison nodded. “Unfortunately, it was one of the many things my father was forced to sell after his investments began to fail.”

“But he didn't tell her?”

“I suspect he wasn't thinking clearly at the time,” Harrison replied carefully. “He was completely overwhelmed by the debts that surrounded him. But he also wanted to protect my mother from the knowledge of just how badly he had handled their wealth. I suppose at first he thought that he would sell a few things and relieve some of the financial pressure on him, and hope that eventually some of his investments would bear fruit.” His expression was grim. “Unfortunately, that was not the case.”