The Danger of Desire (18 page)

“I beg your pardon?” Rawsthorne rose instantly behind his desk.

Hugh gave him the look that had made hardened seamen whimper in their sleep. “Your men. Ellis, Mickeford, and Greens. The men you’ve had watching my house and following me about the city. Stand them down. They are interfering with my ability to do the job Admiral Middleton entrusted to me. They are about as obvious as a fireship, hanging about Chelsea. Teach them to do their job properly, but don’t use me to do it. Good day.”

CHAPTER 13

H
ugh spent the rest of the morning making arrangements for the afternoon. It would have been much simpler and less time consuming to have taken Meggs with him to Whitehall, but he didn’t want her to be in any way mixed up with Rawsthorne or his men. It was one thing for him to play with Rawsthorne’s fire, but if he involved Meggs, or let Rawsthorne get even a hint of her, he might not be able to protect her or guarantee her amnesty.

And here she was, the object of his obsession, putting fresh tapers into the candlesticks in the entry corridor. “Are you ready to get to work?”

“Me? Right now? Just like that?” She dumped the rest of the candles into a convenient drawer. “But I have to know what we’re doing. Need to plan. You can’t just go off like a cannon shot and hope you hit something. You’ve gotta aim.”

God, he loved how this girl’s mind worked. “Duly noted. We’ll be heading up to Town in a private coach, to St. James’s, where we will ‘dip some toffs.’ ”

Her smile of appreciation was so dazzling, his heart hammered off beat and his sense of anticipation sailed a notch higher. “We should be able to find at least one of the gentlemen on our list at his club on St. James’s Street.”

“Oh, I do love a bit of work down St. James’s. Right then. I’ll need to look espectable—especially as you’ll look like you fit in. You wait here.” She evaporated up the stairs.

When she came back down four minutes later she looked—respectable, nothing more. Nothing to remark upon. Which was in and of itself remarkable, since he found her so remarkable, so intriguing. But somehow she masked it—her own character, her charisma—and became another character all together. She should have been on the boards at Drury Lane—she’d have made a fortune collecting the baubles of the rich playboys, instead of having to steal them.

But Hugh found he didn’t like the image of her as available to other men. Even imaginary men. He could only console himself with the knowledge that if she had wanted to become an actress, she most certainly would have done so. But she had not. She had chosen to become a thief, much to his current benefit.

“Will you be warm enough in that? Why aren’t you wearing the heavier cloak? That’s why I bought it for you.”

She had two wool shawls wrapped around her. “Wouldn’t look me part in such a nice, new cloak. Draw attention that would.”

“A cloak? What possible difference could a warm cloak make? Other than keeping you from contracting a pneumonia.”

“It’s not just the cloak. A girl like me, a servant, could never be seen with the likes of you, her master, in new clothings ’less it was a business proposition of an entirely different sort, see?”

Hugh stifled—yes completely stifled—the smile twisting at his lips. He would not remark upon the “proposition of an entirely different sort.” He would
not
. “You’re sure?”

“Oh, yeah. Dressed like this, no one sees me. Too old and you’re interesting, like a cart wreck—they gotta look. But women in the middle of life—middle class, middling looks— people barely ever sees them. It’s like they’re invisible. Gang o’ kids, a loose boy or two, or a sharp-eyed bloke they don’t know, and everyone’s got their hand over their purse. But some plain-dressed, plain-lookin,’ plain-spoken woman? Nobody pays a lick of attention, so they’ll never be able to recognize her again. Made my fortune on it.”

“Your fortune? Some fortune, if you lived in a tenement near Bull Wharf,” he teased, but there was nothing casual about his avid curiosity about her life before he came to know her.

“Ain’t in the Thames wharves now, am I?”

“
I’m not
in the Thames Street wharves,” he corrected automatically.

“Oh, we’re well educated today, are we?” She switched effortlessly to the better-spoken, well-modulated tones of the lesser gentry. “My fortune is not hidden in some rookery but is under the direction of a very reputable firm of brokers in the city, allocated equally between the safe and sound five percents and other, more productive investments.”

Hugh wasn’t sure which surprised him more, the easy accent or the mention of the reputable firm of brokers. “You’ve a broker in Cornhill Street?”

“Threadneedle. Standing appointment every other Friday.” At his look, she put up her chin. “Not every thief is an idiot who trades his fence for blue ruin. I am very good at what I do, Captain, and I’m no fool. I thought that’s why you collared me?”

“Yes.” But he had never in a million years thought uneducated street thieves were salting it away in Threadneedle Street. But he should have. She’d had him send the money there. “Ah. Levy and Levy.”

“Bright one, you are.”

“And does Mr. Levy know your money comes from ill-gotten gains?”

“Matter of fact, he does. Asked me that very question once. And I told him.”

“Not very scrupulous, your Mr. Levy.”

She rounded on him, full of aggravated righteousness. “He’s got every scruple he needs, and so do I. I can’t change what I am, what I’ve become in my life. If I hadn’t started thieving, I would have become a beggar on the streets. Or worse. How honest is that, just setting there, all pitiful, begging for a handout? At least I work for my money. I worked hard for Nan, I worked hard for Timmy and myself, and I’m damn sure working hard for you. And you needed my work and my skills, don’t you forget, Mr. High and Mighty Captain, while you’re polishing your scruples to a glossy shine.”

That speech was both elegant and extremely heartfelt. “I stand corrected.”

That set her resentment back down on her heels. “Well, all right, then. You ready to go?”

The private carriage was on loan from his mother, Viscountess Balfour, from her extensive stables behind Berkley Square. It wasn’t often he asked for a favor, and his request of her had been answered by the arrival of her second best, and he noted with thanks, unmarked town coach. His leg was improving, but it was too stiff for a second cold wherry ride upriver.

He put Meggs inside, and Timmy was to play Tiger and sit up with the driver. Hugh planned to have the coach leave them at the Inn of the Crown and Scepter, halfway up St. James’s Street, where they might pose as passengers in transit while they watched the clubs, White’s and Brook’s, on opposite sides of the street. Today, they were looking for Thomas Williams, an MP who usually came to his club in the late afternoon, on his way from Westminster to Mayfair, and left after a drink or two.

Meggs was smiling as the carriage edged down the congested street. “What is it?”

“Oh, I’ve worked this little stretch of the city a time or two. Took a couple of purses right over there, near Little Ryder Street, that first morning, before we saw you.”

It seemed half a lifetime ago already.

They had pulled up in front of the Crown and Scepter, when he saw another of their suspects. “There’s Lord Stoval, coming out of White’s. I hadn’t planned for you to follow him, but he’s one of the Lords Commissioners as well. He lives over near Grosvenor Square.”

“Forrest green coat there?” She blew out a huff of breath. “It’s all over, Captain. There’s your sharper. Got something down his tail pocket, he has. From the inside, looks like. That’s hard to bung. We might get at it, if we do a bulk and file with the Tanner, but it’s devilish tricky, and anyway, a man that jumpy’d be fly to us.”

“For God’s sake, Meggs, speak English.”

“Bulk and file? The Tanner could jostle him while I do the business with his pockets, but your man there would be fly to us. He’d know—he’s all but waiting for it. Look at him with his eyes about the place like a sharper. On the take, that one is, and edgy. Written all over him.”

He could see some of what she meant as he watched Stoval stride through the archway. To his eyes, the man did appear tense, but no more than that. “Tell me why you think so.”

“One side of his coattail is heavier than the other—falls lower and pulls the fit of the coat off. Look at his hands on his stick. Tight grip, tense. And it’s too heavy for fashion, that stick. And he’s no need for it—he’s not a gimp, like you. Now, see that—he’s touched his coattail twice now as he’s walking to his carriage. Just the barest pat, but like he’s checking his goods, see? And—I don’t know—something about his eyes. Too sharp. No doubt, Captain, he’s your man.” She crossed her arms across her chest, completely satisfied with her almost instantaneous assessment.

“All that in fifteen seconds?”

She shot him an eyebrow and cocked her head to the side, a look of both superiority and pity. “Let me ask you something. How long does it take
you
to look up at the sails of your big ship, with all them masts and spars and ropes, and decide which one is set wrong?”

He couldn’t help but smile. With one analogy she had convinced him.

“Seconds, am I right? That’s because you’re a professional navvy, all trained up for it. It’s your job, innit? Well, this is my job, taking the lay of a man. Spent hours and hours, and days and days, I did, walking up and down streets with old Nan, her in her governess rig and me as her charge. Asking questions and questions. What did I see? Where was his hands? What hadn’t I noticed? Teaching me to look harder, making me figure it all out, until I could tell who had meggs and who had pennies, just from the way their pockets creased. You take my word for it, Cap’n. He’s your man. That’s money in your bank.”

“As much as I wish you may be right, we must still be thorough. And methodical. There are three other men left to investigate, and we can’t discount a one of them until we know the contents of all their pockets.”

“It’s your money to waste as you see fit. Who’s next?”

“Thomas Williams, Member of Parliament for Grampound. And there he is. Bath superfine, buff breeches, boots.”

“You’re getting better at this, Cap. Waistcoat carmel brocade, fine gold watch, good chain, jeweled pin in his cravat. Tempting that. Slight tremor in his left hand. That’ll be his weak side. Right.” She clambered out the carriage door and would have disappeared in the blink of an eye, but he let loose a volley of Anglo-Saxon oaths that effectively stopped her.

Even Timmy let out an appreciative whistle. “That’s prime oath making, that is, Cap’n.”

Meggs smiled at him from the curb, not daunted in the least. “Nice that. Not a single repeat.”

No trepidation, nothing, from the pair of them. He must be losing his touch. “Oh, go on then, goddamn it. Go on after him.”

Hugh climbed out more slowly, stiff from sitting, and almost lost track of them, so fast did they move. He followed Meggs’s progress from the opposite sidewalk, and his palms all but itched with the desire to take action. He hated being so bloody useless to her and having to keep out of the way. And he felt strangely nervous for her, this first time watching her pick a pocket for him.

He recognized the barely noticeable tension in her face, the quiet flare of her nose before she began to work herself into character. She pulled a small piece of paper out of her pocket, like a note or a direction, and then glanced up at the buildings as if looking for a direction. Then she was behind Williams and stepping on his heel as she brushed past, between the shoulders of two men as they passed each other. Williams seemed to catch her, then back away, tipping his hat to her before he turned across the sidewalk traffic to the doorway of his club without ever pausing. And Meggs was still walking up the sidewalk, dithering with her message for another moment before she ducked into a shop.

Timmy appeared out of nowhere, passing her, and then reappeared on Hugh’s side of the street. “Hold your horse, mister?”

“Did she get it? Do you—”

The lad gave him a stupefied look. “Of course. Passed me a dummee.”

“What’s that?”

“Pocketbook.”

Hugh nodded in comprehension and glanced over his shoulder at the shop.

“She’ll meet us back across the park,” Timmy advised. “Best not to look back.”

She was there already, sitting demurely on a park bench, the picture of respectable nothingness, by the time they arrived, made slower, no doubt, by his uneven gait over the even, browned grass.

She smiled as they approached, her face pinked and shining with pleased delight. He saw a gleam in her eye—a breathless exuberance and excitement. Was that professional pride? Was that what he himself looked like when they had cut out those boats at Toulon, or when
Dangerous
had cut the line at Aboukir Bay?

And something else. Ah. As she looked up at him, and smiled, and raised her brows, he realized it was expectation. No matter she knew she had done well, she was waiting for him to tell her so. Waiting for his approval. The heat in his gut he had endeavored to keep on a slow match burst into flame. God’s balls but she was going to kill him, making him wait. Making her decide to want him.

“Well done, all. Very well done. Now let’s get back to Chelsea before the light’s gone.” Even he could hear the grimness in his voice.

They examined Mr. Williams’s personal chattals, as Meggs was fond of calling them, in great detail. Along with the pocketbook was Williams’s purse, his watch, the stickpin from his cravat, and a small tin of snuff. Meggs was nothing if not thorough.

The pocketbook was a revelation of orderly and exemplary note keeping. It held a detailed list of each and every appointment for the day, day after day. Committees, votes, and positions on various bills were given the same amount of space and attention as social engagements. Beside each appointment entry was a column, listing each and every expenditure paid out, from Hackney carriages to his tailor. From its pages they could recreate Williams’s exact day, each and every day.