My Favorite Thief (6 page)

“Then ye found out most rich folk would flay a flea for his skin,” Eunice observed contemptuously, entering the room bearing an enormous tray of tea, cheese, and oatcakes.

“They dinna mind spendin' on themselves,” Doreen snorted, carrying another tray filled with cups and saucers. “ 'Tis only when it comes to others that they suddenly canna recall where they put their wallets.”

“Never mind, lass, there's as good fish in the sea as ever come out of it,” Oliver finished philosophically. “We just need to get ye tossin' yer net out more.”

“I had hoped to get some support at Lord Chadwick's dinner last night,” Charlotte reflected. “I thought it would be a good opportunity to talk about the work we are doing here, and entice people to donate their money. Unfortunately, I never got the chance.”

“Maybe you got something better out of it then just a couple of donations,” Annabelle mused. “After all, last night most of London had no idea who you are.”

“You're right, Annabelle,” agreed Grace. “After reading the papers this morning, almost everyone in London knows that Miss Charlotte Kent was abducted last night by the infamous Dark Shadow.”

“And until this evening's papers are printed, everyone will be speculating whether you're going to be found alive or dead,” added Simon, helping himself to one of Eunice's oatcakes. “You're a celebrity.”

“Not just to the nobs, neither,” Annie pointed out. “My friends can't read, but they can sure talk, an' nothin' takes their fancy better than a good sneak job or murder.”

“I don't see how my sudden celebrity is going to help us.” Charlotte disliked intensely the idea that so much attention was suddenly upon her. “Society doesn't like to hear about the problems of the poor, unless you're asking them to give to something safe and respectable and established, like a church or a hospital. When I ask people to make a donation so I can help unfortunate women and children get off the streets and make a new life, they lecture me on how those women and children are born lacking morality, and say I shouldn't be associating with such people.”

“It's them that ye shouldna be associatin' with,” Eunice huffed angrily.

“I know those swells.” Annie's cheeks were flushed with indignation. “All high and mighty in their fine traps, lookin' down at ye like ye was some nasty bug what crawled out from under a rock—but give 'em half a chance and they is more than willin' to grab a feel or have a snatch—”

“Here now!” Oliver scowled, but his voice was gentle as he reminded her, “That's nae way to be talkin', lass.”

Annie sighed. “Beg pardon—I forgot.”

“You just have to keep asking them, Charlotte,” Annabelle told her. “Keep asking, until finally they are too ashamed to keep refusing you.”

“But most of them never even give me the chance to ask. I sent more than two dozen letters last month asking a number of wealthy people for a meeting so I could tell them about my house, and so far all of them have eluded my request. They claim to be too busy to see me.”

“Which is why you have to get out and attend a few balls and parties,” Grace suggested. “Get them to commit some funds while they are surrounded by others and don't want to appear stingy or unsympathetic to the problems of the poor.”

“Hook 'em when they're a wee bit wellied,” Oliver advised. “That's when they'll be dippin' deepest into their pockets.”

Charlotte sighed. “I don't really like going to parties. I only went to Lord and Lady Chadwick's house for dinner because Lady Chadwick had promised Haydon and Genevieve that they would have me over occasionally while I'm in London. I was concerned they might be insulted if I refused their invitation.”

“I know you don't care much for those affairs, Charlotte.” Grace regarded her sympathetically. “But if you really care about this house and providing help to those who need it, and you don't want to keep going to Genevieve and Haydon for money, I'm afraid you're going to have to overcome your distaste for them.”

“And tomorrow night is the perfect time to start,” Annabelle decided. “Lord and Lady Marston are throwing their spectacular annual summer ball, which is sure to be one of the grandest affairs of the season. Didn't you receive an invitation? They always make a point of sending one to all of us.”

“I sent them a note telling them I wouldn't be attending,” Charlotte told her. “I know they only invite me out of respect for Haydon. They don't really want me to go.”

“Well, you are going to attend,” Annabelle decided. “And you needn't be afraid, because Jamie, Simon, Grace, and I will all be going with you. It will be fun,” she insisted, seeing a look of despair cloud her sister's face. “Everyone will be thrilled to see that you are safe and well.”

“I'm sure they will all want to talk to you, to find out how you escaped the Dark Shadow,” Grace added.

“And while they're crowding about, you can talk about your house and ask them to donate money,” Jamie finished. “All you have to do is get one person to commit, and the others will follow, just so they won't appear tightfisted. You'll see.”

Charlotte shook her head. “I can't go, Annabelle.”

“Why not?”

Because I hate everyone staring at me,
she thought desperately.
Because I'm not charming or beautiful or gay like the other women there will be. Because everyone will pretend not to look at me when I limp across the room, but I'll know that they are. Because if I stand for too long my leg will throb and go into spasm, but if I sit down everyone will whisper that I'm a cripple. Because I can't bear their pity. And I can't bear their contempt. It weakens me too much, and I can't afford to be weak.

“I haven't anything to wear.”

Annabelle laughed. “That doesn't matter. Between Grace's gowns and mine, I'm sure we can find something wonderful for you to wear.”

“They won't fit,” Charlotte protested. “I'm smaller than both of you.”

“Not by much,” countered Doreen. “With a wee nip here an' a tuck there, Eunice and me can have any gown lookin' like it was made for ye.”

“I don't have any evening slippers,” Charlotte added. Why couldn't they just see that she couldn't go? “The ones I wore last night were ruined in the rain, and I haven't any others.”

“But ye've time to buy new ones,” Annie pointed out, excited by the prospect of Charlotte attending an actual ball. “The shop windows is fully of lovely shoes—ye could get somethin' really prime—with bows on 'em an' such.”

“Annie is right,” Simon agreed. “And don't worry about the cost—you know Haydon and Genevieve are very happy to pay for your personal effects.”

“Why don't you get dressed, and then we'll get Oliver to drive us over to Bond Street and we'll buy you some shoes. Then we'll go back to the house and you can try on a few gowns, to see which one you like best.”

“I can't go, Annabelle.” Charlotte's voice was small as she quietly admitted, “I don't want all those people staring at me.”

“What's this?” demanded Oliver, frowning. “Is this the wee lass who faced the Dark Shadow just last night, an' brought him down in front of a mob?”

“The lass who helped him walk when he was all weak an' bleedin', an' near dragged him up the stairs?” Doreen added.

“The lass who faced both a police inspector and a constable as cool as ye please, without givin' either of them a hint o' who was lyin' in bed just above their heads?” finished Eunice.

Oliver reached out and squeezed her hand. “Seems to me if ye're strong enough for that, then ye're strong enough to blather with a few rich nobs at a party.”

“You don't have to stay long, Charlotte,” Jamie assured her. “Just tell us when you want to leave and we'll take you home. I promise.”

“Then you can tell me an' Ruby an' Violet all about it,” said Annie eagerly. “I'm sure it'll be prime.”

Charlotte was sure it wouldn't be prime at all—at least not for her. But there was no denying that it would be a good opportunity for her to try to elicit donations.

“Very well,” she said, fighting the dread tightening her chest. “I'll go.”

 

H
ARRISON BURIED HIS FACE INTO THE CARPET AND
groaned.

A trickle of sunlight had slipped through the crack between the heavy velvet draperies and was spilling onto his face. He squeezed his eyes tight and shifted away from it, his mind too clouded to judge if he was ready to tolerate it.
Slowly,
he reminded himself, inhaling a shallow, steadying breath. He waited a moment, trying to assess the level of pain in his head. He felt weary and his brain was foggy, but experience had taught him that was probably just the aftereffect of the laudanum. No more headache, he decided. Relieved, he rolled onto his side.

And swore fiercely at the explosion of pain in his shoulder.

He eased himself up off his bedroom floor, dazed and confused. The moment he saw the worn fabric of the cheaply tailored coat he was wearing, his fragmented memory began to fall into place. He shrugged out of the garment and opened the shirt he wore beneath, then stared in bewilderment at the swath of bloody bandages wrapped around his shoulder. A milky image of two elderly Scottish women came to his mind, dismissing it as only a flesh wound. There had been others there, too, he realized, struggling to remember. A few pretty young girls with rough speech. An old man. A young boy.

And a strangely attractive young woman who had done her best to protect him after she stumbled upon him in Lady Chadwick's chamber.

“Harry? Are you up yet?”

Harrison hastily closed his shirt and threw on the coat again, covering his injury. “Come in, Tony.”

The door opened and a lean, golden-haired young man rushed excitedly into the gloom of the chamber, carrying a newspaper.

“Have you heard? The Dark Shadow has struck again, only this time he's gone and killed Lord Haywood.”

“My apologies, your lordship,” managed Harrison's butler, hurrying breathlessly into the room. “I told Mr. Poole you were not yet available to receive visitors, but he was most insistent that he see you immediately, and raced up the stairs before I could—”

“That's all right, Telford,” Harrison managed. His tongue felt thick and clumsy. “Thank you.”

“There, Telford, you see? I told you Harry wouldn't mind.” Tony regarded the hapless butler with amusement. Telford shot him a disapproving look and headed back down the corridor. “Shot him clean in the chest, poor bastard,” Tony continued excitedly, shifting his attention back to Harrison, “then left him to bleed to death while he made off with some terrified young girl—and no one knows what's become of her. Jesus, Harry, you look bloody awful,” he remarked, frowning. “What the hell were you up to last night?”

“Not much.” Harrison staggered to the washstand and splashed some cold water on his face.

“Did you go out?”

“I went to the club for a while. Had a drink.”

“By the look of you this morning, I'd say it was more than one,” Tony observed wryly.

Harrison shrugged, then clenched his jaw as his wounded shoulder throbbed in protest. “What brings you here this morning, Tony?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Don't you remember? We're having lunch today. You told me to pick you up at eleven o'clock.” He regarded Harrison curiously. “You do remember, Harry, don't you?”

Harrison was careful to keep his expression bland. In fact he had no memory whatsoever of arranging to have lunch with Tony.
Yet another incident,
he realized, fighting the sick sensation uncoiling within him. This was how it began. An inability to recall small, ordinary things, like agreeing to have lunch with a friend, or where he left a book he was reading, or the name of someone he had met just the previous week. Each incident on its own easily dismissed as nothing, or the fact that he had too much on his mind, or that he had been suffering too many headaches lately. But strung together into a chain, they pointed to something quite different.

A dull pounding sensation began to creep up the back of his skull, warning him another headache could be imminent.

“Of course I remember,” he lied.

“Good.” Tony smiled. “Why don't I leave you to get dressed, then, and I'll meet you in your study downstairs?”

“Meet me in the drawing room. My study is a mess.”

“I don't mind,” Tony assured him cheerfully. “I'm more comfortable amidst disorder.”

“The drawing room is better, Tony,” Harrison asserted, a little more forcefully. “I'd prefer it if you waited for me there.”

Tony cast him an exasperated look. “Fine, Harry, I'll go wait in your bloody stuffy drawing room. Just don't take too long—I'm anxious to get to your club and find out if anyone has heard anything more about the Dark Shadow, or if Lord Redmond's ward has turned up yet.”

“Who?”

“The girl the Shadow abducted,” Tony explained. “She's one of those urchins the Marquess of Redmond took on when he married his wife years ago. Of course she's grown up now, but she's a cripple so Redmond hasn't been able to marry her off—not that she'd make much of a match, given her background. Apparently she came to London last year to set up some sort of refuge house for whores and urchins.”

Another image pierced the veil obscuring his memory. The face of a pretty girl staring down at him with concern, her enormous eyes shadowed with fear and something more, an emotion Harrison could not readily identify.

“And they haven't found her yet?” he asked, confused.

“Well, they hadn't at the time they printed this paper, but that was last night,” Tony allowed. “Once we get to the club, we should be able to find out if she has turned up—alive or dead.”