My Favorite Thief (24 page)

Lewis's own career, on the other hand, was just about to begin.

“That was most clever of you, Inspector, the way you set this entire evening up,” the Dark Shadow remarked, his voice laced with admiration. “I suspect you knew that the Star of Persia once belonged to my family. You must have realized I would want to get it back.”

“I hoped it would capture your attention,” Lewis admitted. “Once I suspected it was you who was responsible for the robberies, Lord Bryden, I began to look for a pattern—not in how you robbed, which was self-evident, but in what you robbed. I started to look more closely at your thefts of the past, and the history of those particular jewels. That was when I discovered they all had a unique link to one another. Each piece had been part of your estate before your father died—some of them for several generations. That is when I came up with the idea of getting Lord and Lady Whitaker to pretend they had the Star of Persia in their possession. I felt certain you would be eager to reclaim that particular piece.”

“Very astute of you.” His captive tilted his masked head in tribute.

Lewis nodded. He had not expected Lord Bryden to be quite so civilized in his arrest. That was the way of things amongst the aristocracy, he supposed. They might succumb to the baser acts of stealing and murder like any other common criminal. But when they realized they had been caught, they remembered who they were and conducted themselves accordingly.

Which was going to make Lewis's job considerably easier.

“If you'll just hold out your hands for me, I'm afraid I'm going to have to put these manacles on. It's just a formality, you understand,” he added. “I'm required to do it.”

“I understand,” the Dark Shadow assured him. He obligingly raised one hand, patiently watching as his earnest inspector bent his head to fix the manacle onto his wrist.

Then he smashed him across the back of his skull with his jemmy, causing Lewis to crumple heavily onto the floor.

He stood above him a moment, his weapon poised to bash him again if he so much as twitched. He didn't want to kill him, he reminded himself, fighting for control. After all, this inspector was now an essential component of finishing the game.

“Drop it,” commanded a low voice suddenly, “before I blow your goddamn head off.”

He looked up, startled. The room was still cloaked in shadows, relieved only marginally by the thin spit of light from his small lantern. It didn't matter. He knew the masked figure standing before him.

“Good evening, Bryden,” he said, trying to contain the sheer exaltation pulsing through his veins. He was not to be denied after all. “I was worried you weren't going to show up.”

“Drop your jemmy and move away from him,” Harrison repeated, holding his pistol steady.

Once Harrison had seen Inspector Lewis slip into Lord Whitaker's study, he had thought that it was over. He had half-toyed with the idea of just stealing out of the house then and there, leaving the Metropolitan Police Force to enjoy the splendid victory of the Dark Shadow's arrest. But the moment he realized that there were no eager police constables lined up in the corridor to rush in and assist the intrepid detective, Harrison had hesitated. His own previous altercation with the jewel thief made him absolutely certain that his nemesis would not surrender easily. And so he had waited, wondering if Inspector Turner had any idea just how dangerous the man he had conspired to trap was.

The moment he heard the sound of a body crashing to the floor, he knew the inspector had lost.

“I must say, I'm glad you decided to come,” the Dark Shadow remarked blithely, ignoring his order. “What with the police and Lord and Lady Whitaker going to such trouble to lure me here, it would have been a shame if you missed it.” He tapped his jemmy lightly against his palm.

Harrison inched closer, shrinking the distance between them. “You might as well drop your jemmy. I don't plan to get close enough to you to let you use it on me, and if you try to use it on the poor inspector, I promise I'll shoot you before you land a single blow.”

“You're right,” the Dark Shadow conceded, sighing. “It seems the game really has come to an end.” He shrugged his shoulders, then leaned toward the desk, ostensibly to toss his jemmy on it.

Instead he grabbed his pistol and pointed it at Bryden.

“Now, this is a fascinating development, don't you think, Bryden?” His voice was taunting. “Once again we are equally matched—more or less. The only difference is that I have the ballocks to actually shoot you, whereas you, I'm afraid, are rather unsure as to whether or not you are desperate enough to shoot me.”

Harrison raised his pistol higher, aiming at the bastard's head. “Don't put me to the test,” he warned softly.

The Dark Shadow stared at him a moment, his gaze unfathomable. Then he suddenly shifted his aim from Harrison to the pathetically vulnerable inspector's head. “Drop your weapon now, Bryden,” he snarled, “or I'll blast the handsome inspector's brains all over Lord Whitaker's impeccably woven Turkish carpet.”

Harrison hesitated. He could not be sure that the Dark Shadow would actually carry through with his threat. But the memory of poor Lord Pembroke's butler filled his mind, a silver shaft protruding from his chest. There had been blood everywhere that night, leaking all over the rumpled white of the butler's nightshirt. No one could save him. Just as no one could save Inspector Turner if the bastard standing over him blasted a gaping hole in his skull.

His body rigid with fury, Harrison reluctantly dropped his pistol.

“Excellent choice.” The Dark Shadow nodded with approval. “And now if you'll forgive me, I really must be off.” He edged his way to the windows, his weapon still leveled at the prone figure of Inspector Turner. “I'm sure you and the inspector here will have much to talk about after I leave.” He parted the curtains and raised the sash.

“You can't get away,” Harrison said. “There are constables posted outside watching the house. They'll shoot you long before you make it to the ground.”

“Actually, I don't believe the inspector has much help in this,” the Dark Shadow remarked, peering outside. “I had a good look around before I came in, and I didn't see anyone unusual hanging about. However, you're absolutely right, there's probably a constable or two lurking somewhere. Let's give them something interesting to find, shall we?”

He aimed his pistol at Inspector Turner's head.

Harrison roared with rage and lunged toward him, grabbing his arm just as the weapon discharged. The Dark Shadow heaved Harrison aside, then vaulted himself over the windowsill. By the time Harrison reached the window the thief was already nimbly making his way through the darkness of the garden behind the house.

Harrison swore and hoisted one leg over the sash. He would find him and kill him if it was the last thing he did, he vowed, dragging his other leg over. He would tear him apart with his bare hands—

“Stop or I'll shoot!”

A terrified young constable raced into the study brandishing a quivering pistol. When he saw Inspector Turner's body, his face contorted with horror.

“It wasn't me!” Harrison realized it looked as if he was the one who had shot the inspector. “The Dark Shadow is getting away—”

“Shut your gob!” Constable Wilkins snapped, his pistol trembling. “You're under arrest, do you hear? And if you so much as sneeze, I'll kill you, do you understand?”

Harrison closed his eyes, fighting the mounting pressure that was starting to spread against the front of his skull. It was over, he realized. No one would believe that there had actually been another thief there with him, who had broken into Lord Whitaker's safe and then shot the inspector as he tried to arrest him. Besides, the police had already decided that Harrison was the Dark Shadow. That was why they had created the fantasy lure of the Star of Persia.

Someone had finally deciphered the evidence of his past.

He slowly climbed back into the study, feeling old and defeated.

And agonizingly aware that he had failed, leaving both Charlotte and Flynn hopelessly vulnerable.

Chapter Twelve

T
HEY'VE CAUGHT HIM!”

Oliver swiftly took in Annie's panicked face and the wild tangle of hair falling down her shoulders. “Caught who, lass?”

“Is it Flynn?” asked Eunice fearfully.

“No—it's the Dark Shadow.” Annie's expression was grave as she looked at Charlotte. “He's been arrested, Miss Charlotte. They've locked him up at Newgate. They're goin' to see him tried at the Old Bailey for thievin' an' murder.”

Charlotte gripped the spoon she had been using to stir the batter for Eunice's pound cake. A sickening roar was pounding through her ears. “Are you sure?”

“There's talk of it all through London. They say he was caught last night tryin' to nick some rare diamond from a Lord Whitaker—only there weren't no diamond to be nicked. It was a trap laid by the peelers. The Shadow shot one of 'em, too—that same detective who came to the house the night ye brought him here. Shot him as he lay on the floor, helpless as a babe, the filthy wretch!”

The roaring in Charlotte's ears became overwhelming, making her nauseated. “Is he dead?”

“They say he ain't.” Annie's eyes were smoldering with emotion. “I'm hopin' he ain't—even if he is a peeler.”

“Why?” wondered Violet. “Did ye fancy him?”

“Course not!” Annie returned heatedly. “It just seems an awful shame to have a man like that snuff it while he's just tryin' to uphold the law.”

Violet glanced at Ruby, clearly astonished.

“So who is the Shadow, then?” demanded Doreen. “Is he a swell?”

“Not just a swell,” Annie replied, “he's an earl. Lord Bloody Bryden, they're callin' him now. Lives in a fancy home over on St. James Square, an' has a great country estate, too.”

“I knew it!” Ruby exclaimed. “I can always tell by a man's hands. His was lovely clean—remember, Miss Charlotte? An' he talked so fine—”

“What would an earl who's got two fine houses be doin' runnin' about London at night tryin' to nip jewels?” Eunice frowned, confounded.

“Maybe he did it for a lark,” suggested Violet. “Wanted to see what it was like to prig.”

“An' after he did it once, he got a taste for it,” added Ruby. “That happens sometimes—just like drink. Ye like it so much ye have to do it again, just to feel the same thrill.”

“A shame,” lamented Doreen, shaking her head. “If he'd but changed his ways after Miss Charlotte brought him here, he'd have been able to live out his days in peace an' quiet. Now it's the hangman's noose for him, an' for what? A bit o' brass, which he scarce needed.”

“Maybe the lad had debts,” Eunice suggested. “Maybe his real taste was nae for stealin', but for wagerin', which he could ill afford.”

“Even so, he played an awful risky game. Especially when he had so much to lose. He must have known he couldna stay ahead o' the bobbies forever.”

“Now, lass, ye mustn't blame yerself,” soothed Doreen, suddenly noticing the pallor of Charlotte's cheeks and the taut skin of her knuckles. “After all, ye scarce had any time with him. I'm sure if ye'd had but a few days more—an' if he hadna been sufferin' that fierce headache, an' been well dosed with laudanum—ye'd have done yer best to change his ways. As for the inspector, well, ye had nae way of knowin' the Dark Shadow could actually murder. Ye said yerself he had nae but a hairbrush on him the night ye crossed paths.”

“Seems the lad fell a long way in a short time,” reflected Oliver grimly. “A dirk in the chest o' poor Lord Pembroke's butler, then a bullet in the inspector. I'd have nae thought he could be so cold.” He paused a moment, hesitant. “Did ye know about Lord Bryden, lass?”

Charlotte regarded him helplessly, feeling as if her world were spinning completely beyond her control. The women in the kitchen regarded her with interest, perhaps thinking that Charlotte might have casually met Lord Bryden at one of the dinners or parties she had recently attended. They did not know of Charlotte's visit to Harrison's home several nights earlier. Charlotte had begged Oliver not to say anything to anyone about it, and of course he had honored his word.

“Did ye know who the Shadow really was?” Annie's voice was taut. It was apparent the shooting of Inspector Turner had upset her.

“Yes,” Charlotte admitted. The air in the kitchen suddenly was thin and hot, and she couldn't seem to fill her lungs. “And everything that's happened—to Lord Pembroke's butler, and to Inspector Turner—is because of me.”

“Dinna be daft,” scolded Doreen impatiently. “Ye saved the man's life by bringin' him here when ye did, or else he might have bled to death or been hanged. As for turnin' him over to the peelers, well, till then, he'd nae killed anyone—he'd only snatched a few bonny jewels.”

“None of us thought he'd go on to murder.” Eunice clucked her tongue. “Somehow he didna seem the type.”

Shame was surging through Charlotte now, coupled with a suffocating despair. “I made him commit those robberies,” she confessed miserably. “He was doing them for me.”

Oliver regarded her incredulously. “What in the name o' Saint Andrew are ye blatherin' about?”

She had to tell them, she realized. There was no way around it. “When I realized that Lord Bryden was the Dark Shadow, I tried to blackmail him,” she explained. “It was totally wrong, of course, but at the time I couldn't see that. I needed a great deal of money quickly, and all I could think was that Lord Bryden had the means to give it to me. I didn't know he would have to steal it, but I didn't really care. All I knew was that Flynn was in danger. I needed five thousand pounds to get him back, and Lord Bryden was the only one I knew who could get it for me without asking too many questions.”

“Here now, what's this about Flynn?” Oliver's expression was incredulous. “I thought ye said he'd sent word that he'd moved on, an' we were nae to worry about him.”

“I lied to you. I'm dreadfully sorry, Oliver, but I didn't know what else to do.” Her words were coming faster now, her voice edged with hysteria. “I couldn't tell you the truth, because he said if I told anyone he would hurt Flynn, or one of you, or even Grace or Annabelle or Simon—”

“All right now, lass, take a breath,” commanded Eunice, wrapping a strong arm around her. “Who said they would hurt Flynn?”

“If someone's been threatenin' ye or has hurt the lad, I'll beat their arse from here to Sunday!” raged Doreen, clutching her thin hands into fists.

“It weren't Jimmy, was it?” Annie's eyes were flashing with anger now. “Is that bruise ye got on yer cheek the other night from him?”

“Ye swore to me up and down that ye'd stumbled and fallen,” interjected Eunice. “Is that nae the truth?”

Charlotte held fast to the worn wooden boards of the table. The past she had tried so hard to extract herself from, however imperfectly, was about to envelop her once more. In her life with Genevieve and Haydon, Boney Buchan had become a distant phantom, one who had left her physically and emotionally scarred, but who no longer had the power to hurt her. That had changed. Her attempt to keep him a secret and deal with him on her own, according to his rules, had been a mistake. And now both Flynn and Harrison were going to pay for it.

“Flynn has been taken by my father—my real father.” Her voice was hollow and ashamed. “He goes by the name Boney Buchan. I haven't seen him for years, not since I was ten years old, and we were arrested for stealing. He went to prison in Scotland. Now he's here in London.”

“And once he found ye he decided to squeeze ye for a few quid.” Oliver's wrinkled face was contorted with fury.

Charlotte nodded. “He wants five thousand pounds. I told him I didn't have it, but he didn't believe me. He said he'd do something dreadful to my family if I didn't get it for him. So I went to Lord Bryden and I asked him for the money, in exchange for my silence. By then I had realized he was the Dark Shadow. He gave me eight hundred pounds, which was all he had in his possession at the time. But when I gave it to my father, he said wasn't enough, and then he told me that he'd taken Flynn. So I went back to Lord Bryden, and he promised to get the money for me. That's what he was doing at Lord Whitaker's. He was trying to steal enough for me to pay my father and get Flynn back.”

“Ye should have told us lass,” Oliver admonished sternly. “Ye know we would have done everythin' we could to help.”

“I wanted to tell you, Oliver, but I was afraid,” Charlotte explained. “My father can be very violent. He swore to me that if I told anyone about him, he'd do something dreadful—not just to me, but to Flynn or one of you.”

“Right, then,” said Annie, braced with the need to take action. “Tell us what this Boney Buchan looks like, an' me, Ruby, an' Violet will put out the word that we're lookin' for him. There's sure to be someone about who won't mind squeakin' on him in exchange for an ale or a couple o' meat pies.”

“Once we find him, we'll get Flynn, an' then he won't hold nothin' over you,” Ruby continued. “I've a few friends I can ask for help, too, to make him understand he ain't to bother you again.”

“I don't think anyone can make him understand that.” Charlotte's voice was strained. “He's very violent.”

“So are half the men in St. Giles—and half the women, too!” scoffed Annie, unimpressed. “Yer da must be near fifty by now, ain't he?”

“I don't really know,” Charlotte admitted. “I suppose so.”

“Then he ain't near so strong as he was when ye was just a girl,” Annie decided.

“Annie's right,” Ruby agreed. “Just look at who he's threatenin'—a scrawny, half-starved lad an' a lady with a crippled leg.” She snorted in disgust. “It's disgraceful, is what it is. Some of the lads I know would be happy to give him a proper fanning just for that.”

“To say nae of what yer brothers will think once they find out,” added Eunice. “I canna imagine Jack would leave much of him standin' if he ever got his hands on him.”

“Jack mustn't ever know,” Charlotte objected. “Please, Eunice—we can tell Simon and Jamie, but not Jack. He would be furious if he learned that my father has been threatening me. He might do something terrible—something that might land him in jail.”

“The lass is right,” Oliver agreed. “Simon and Jamie will keep a cool head, but Jack won't. 'Tis in the lad's blood to swing his fists first an' talk later.”

“It scarce matters, since he's still away on one of his voyages,” Doreen observed. “I dinna think he expected to be back till next month, at the earliest.”

“Fine, then, I'll ride over to Mayfair and tell Simon, Jamie, Annabelle, and Grace what's happened.” Oliver rose from the table. “An' we'll send a note to Miss Genevieve and his lordship, who are visitin' in the country, and ask them to take the next train to London straight away.”

“If they get the note this evening, they could be here by tomorrow afternoon,” Eunice reflected. “Then we can all decide how we're goin' to handle Boney Buchan.”

The fierce determination and energy filling the warm kitchen flooded through Charlotte, making her feel stronger. Now that the news about her father was in the open, the crushing burden she had been carrying since he had first accosted her had suddenly eased a little. She had been wrong to try to deal with him on her own, she realized. She had thought that by keeping his vile threats a secret, she was protecting the people she cared for. Instead she had left them all exposed, increasing her father's ability to hurt them. She would not make the same mistake again.

“I'll go with you to Mayfair, Oliver, so I can explain everything to my brothers and sisters myself,” Charlotte decided, rising from her chair. “But first we have to make a stop at Newgate.”

Oliver regarded her uncertainly. “Are ye sure that's wise, lass? If the police suspect ye've known the Shadow was Lord Bryden—”

“Wise or not, I am going to see Lord Bryden.” She swallowed thickly, trying to control the emotions churning through her. “I want to know how he is faring. I want to apologize for putting him into such a terrible position. And I want to see if there is anything I can do to help him. I'm sorry, Annie,” she apologized, sensing the girl's outrage, “but the Lord Bryden I know is very different from the man who was arrested last night. I cannot explain why he shot Inspector Turner when he was helpless—if that is indeed true. But whatever he did—whyever he did it—there's something I have to tell him…” She stopped suddenly.

“That's all right lass.” Troubled by her obvious distress, Oliver glanced uncertainly at Eunice and Doreen, who both nodded.

“All right then,” he conceded, reluctant. “I'll fetch the carriage and take ye to Newgate, if that's where ye're fixin' to go.”