The Theft Before Christmas (7 page)

Now that she did, she thought she looked a bit older. But as she peered at her reflection, she decided these clothes would not do. She had put on her warmest dress because her room had been so cold. As it was sure to be outside.

The blue pelisse! Papa—the only man who’d ever told her she was pretty—preferred her to wear blue. Because it matched her eyes. She would just put that over the woolen dress she wore, and she would refuse to take it off.

After donning the blue merino pelisse and stuffing her hands into the ermine muff Mama had sent her for Christmas, she started for Colonel Bond’s house. She was still trembling. She felt wretchedly disloyal to Lady Daphne for going behind her back like this, but she could not allow her to go through with her scheme to steal a Michelangelo from the Prince Regent. Why she and the captain could be transported to Australia! Or even worse. Crimes against the Crown were punishable by . . . oh dear, by death!

We must stop them.

Just because the aristocrats were all off at their country houses for Christmas did not mean the Capital had stilled. Nothing could be further from the truth. Once she got off the quiet lane where the Drydens resided, the streets were alive with the rattle of wheels and the clopping of hooves. On Vauxhall Bridge Road, many poorly dressed men were hawking
’ot nuts
, and an assortment of equally as ragged onlookers peered into the windows of a print shop.

Mama had told her never to look when a crowd gathered there because they were sure to be attracted by sights unfit for a maiden’s eyes. Which only increased Charlotte’s curiosity. If it weren’t imperative that she hurry to Colonel Bond’s, she might have stopped today. She was beginning to enjoy her liberation ever so much.

Except for this frightfully nasty business with Lady Daphne and the captain.

As she drew close to the colonel’s house, her heartbeat roared.
What if he’s not there?
He had told them when he left them the previous night he would await their summons.

She came up the steps to the door and paused. She drew in her breath, then knocked upon the shiny black door with a trembling hand.

To her surprise, his servant did not answer the door. The colonel himself did. That was when she remembered that he'd given his man a Christmas holiday.

“Miss Huntington?”

She burst into tears.

He came to put an arm around her and steer her into his house. “Whatever can be the matter? Has something happened to Lady Daphne?”

“It’s the most dreadful thing.” Sniff. Sniff. “I didn’t know what to do.” Sniff. Sniff.

“Dear, dear. Do come into the drawing room. There’s a fire to warm you. You shouldn’t have been out on such a beastly cold day.”

He pulled a chair up in front of the fire, and after she sat, he pulled up another chair for himself and spoke to her in a gentle voice. “Pray, Miss Huntington, you must tell me what is the matter.”

“I didn’t know what to do. That’s why I’m here. I knew a man of your worldly experience would know how to handle it. I am afraid Lady Daphne will be executed.”

His eyes rounded.”My dear lady, have you taken leave of your senses?”

She began to wail.

He patted her back. “Terribly sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

He waited until she calmed, then he once more questioned her. “Pray, why do you think Lady Daphne might be executed?”

Sniff. “Captain Dryden, too.”

“Good lord! What can you be talking about?”

“Captain Dryden did not sprain his ankle.” She looked up into the colonel’s concerned face.

“I fail to see a connection between that and a possible execution.”

His eyes, she noticed, were the color of scorched honey. If honey could be scorched. He really didn’t look so terribly old.

“Well, it’s not exactly connected. It’s that the captain and his wife have been lying to us. I overheard something this morning which I was not supposed to hear.”

“What did you overhear?” he asked, his brows lowered.

Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to go on. She didn’t want the colonel to think her a hysterical girl. In fact, she didn’t want him to think her a girl at all. Did not her rose-tinted cheeks make her look more womanly? “They were making plans to steal a Michelangelo from Carlton House.”

He laughed out loud. “Really, Miss Huntington, I could never believe that of Captain Dryden. He’s the most honorable man I’ve ever known. And, besides, he’s extremely loyal to the Prince Regent. The Regent trusts Dryden more than anyone else in the kingdom.”

“That explains the Drydens’ access to Carlton House. . .Oh, Colonel, I do understand what you’re saying about the captain. I’ve always admired him and Lady Daphne excessively. That’s why this is so painful for me.”

The colonel settled a gentle hand on her shoulder. While it was the same gesture her papa had often done, it affected her completely differently now. A sort of . . . glow-like feeling spread through her. Unaccountably, she felt as if warm honey were oozing into every pore of her body. Even though reason told her she was not a beauty, at this moment, in this chamber, she felt like one.

Which she knew was utter silliness.

“Please, my dear Miss Huntington, start from the beginning and try to remember the exact words you overheard.”

"I cannot get them out of my head, Colonel. Lady Daphne said,
Once you steal the Regent's Michelangelo, how do you get it out of Carlton House
?"

His brows lowered with concern. "That does sound suspicious, especially if the captain's injury was faked. Could you explain how you know they tried to deceive us about his injury?"

She peered up into his (very fine) eyes. He looked so completely sympathetic, she knew she'd done the right thing in coming here. "Do you remember when he elevated his ankle on that chair?"

He nodded.

"Can you tell me which leg it was?"

"The left."

"You're right. But this morning he pretended to avoid putting his weight on his right foot. And there's more."

He lifted a brow.

"The captain joked to his wife this morning, admitting that he concocted a sprained ankle for
Miss Huntington
."

"Good lord, this is most shocking. Now about the execution?"

"Well, it's hoped they would merely be transported when found out, but if their theft is perceived as a crime against the Crown, it could be perceived as treason- -"

"Which is punishable by death."

She started to bawl.

He patted her shoulder and spoke tenderly. "There, there. It will be all right. I'm glad you came to me. We must stop this crime from occurring."

"What if it's already occurred?"

"Then we'll see that the Michelangelo is restored to the Prince Regent."

Their eyes met. She really was awfully glad she'd thought to come here. She'd known she could count on him to make everything right. She nodded. "We must keep the Regent from identifying them as the culprits."

"We shall do our best."

* * *

For several reasons Daphne was happy that they had once again enlisted the aid of Sir Ronald. The first very good reason was that he provided his own fine coach—and more importantly, his coachman. She had decided that riding up on the box on so frigid a day was most unpleasant.

As the three of them rode in said fine coach, with Daphne snuggling against Jack for warmth, her gaze flicked to Sir Ronald, who sat across from them. “Where are Mr. Strickland’s lodgings?” If he lived in gentlemen’s rooms, she worried that she would not be admitted.

“Lord Harvane confessed that until this week, Strickland had been a bit down on his luck. He said Strickland has been living in a not-very-good-quality rooming house in Bloomsbury."

On today’s busy streets it could take them rather a long time to reach the man’s lodging. “Will we be driving near St. James?” she asked. Her sense of direction, lamentably, was as poor as her sense of sight and unlike the latter, was uncorrectable.

“Close,” Sir Ronald said. “Why do you ask? Should you like to go there?”

She and Jack turned toward each other at once. She shrugged.

Jack said, “I believe I fancy some hot chestnuts.”

Sir Ronald gave them a quizzing look. “I daresay you can find them on any corner. Why St. James?”

She eyed her brother-in-law. He looked like the perfectly groomed man he always appeared to be. Every blond hair on his head was in place with such perfection it looked as if he could be wearing a wig. She was unable to observe his clothing because it was covered with a great coat. A great coat of very fine quality. She was able to observe the shiny black Hessians he wore. His valet must have spent hours to bring them to such a shine. She wondered if—like Brummell's valet—he used champagne on them. “Did we not tell you Andy was watching Harriette Wilson’s house?”

Sir Ronald looked even more perplexed. “Andy?”

Daphne frowned. They had told the baronet earlier about Andy’s surveillance. “Our young coachman.”

“Oh, yes. He’s watching Harriette Wilson's?”

She nodded.

“I thought,” Jack said, “that if I stopped to buy nuts from the lad, he could let us know if he’s seen anything of interest.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. Remember, most people not born to the servants’ class are still in their beds fast asleep.”

She knew Sir Ronald was likely right, but she liked to be optimistic. “I hope Andy’s nowhere to be found for that would mean- -“

“That he was following a potential lead,” the baronet said.

She met his smug gaze. “Exactly.”

Sir Ronald got his coachman's attention and requested that he take them first to St. James Street. The luxurious coach was fitted with blinds, which were open to allow some brightness in on so dreary a day.

“Oh, look!” Daphne was thrilled to see the season’s first snow. “It’s snowing.”

“By Jove, it is,” Jack said. “Perhaps we could pray for a jolly good snowstorm that might prevent the King of Spain from arriving in the Capital.”

She glared at her husband. “Such a storm could prevent us from reaching Addersley Priory, too. And I shouldn’t like that at all.”

Jack gave her hand a sympathetic look and very firm squeeze.

“Once we’re at Addersley, though,” Sir Ronald added, “it can snow away—much to our children’s delight.”

“Oh yes,” Daphne agreed. “Those sleigh rides are ever so much fun.” She snuggled even closer. “It will be so romantic, my darling. You and I cuddling beneath the rug as our sleigh crosses the frozen earth beneath tree branches heavy with fluffy white snow.”

"The effect is vastly different than in London where the splat of snow on the filthy pavement is anything but romantic." Jack peered at the splattering of snow on the streets beneath their coach wheels where it turned into a murky liquid.

Within a few minutes they were on St. James. Jack peered from the window on the right, Daphne on the left. Disappointingly, Andy was there on the corner that provided the best view of Harriette Wilson's house. "He's there," Jack said.

Sir Ronald alerted the coachman to stop in front of the chestnut seller, and when he did, Jack said, "I suppose, Sir Ronald, it would be best if you speak with Andy. I could be recognized by Miss Wilson, if she happened to be peering from a window.

Daphne watched as Sir Ronald strolled over and asked for a handful of chestnuts. As Andy looked up, his gaze connected with Daphne's, and he smiled, then gave Sir Ronald his complete attention. While Andy prepared the nuts, he and the baronet—who was no stranger to him—talked.

When Sir Ronald returned to the coach a moment later—with chestnuts for all of them—he said Andy reported that no one had either left or come to the front door as he watched. He also said he kept an eye on each alleyway entrance to see if any tradesmen had business at the
courtesan's 'ouse
. Obviously Andy was pleased to have added a new word to his vocabulary.

Daphne frowned. "I'm disappointed, but as you say, it was to be expected this early in the day."

"It was good of you to get him there early," Sir Ronald said. "Have you thought how you will manage to watch the house tonight?"

"I believe my wife's hopes are pinned on Strickland."

She nodded. "I cannot help it. I'm optimistic. Since we've got less than four and twenty hours, we need Mr. Strickland's cooperation. We shall appeal to his patriotism, even though I'm ever so fearful that he's made a pact with the devil."

Sir Ronald raised a single brow in query.

"We believe d'Arblier may be behind the theft," Jack said.

"I see," Sir Ronald said with a nod. "It does make perfect sense that a snake like the duc d'Arblier would mastermind something of this nature to destroy our alliance with the Spanish." That Sir Ronald was something big in the Foreign Office was another very good reason why she and Jack trusted him and counted upon his integrity.

During the ride to Bloomsbury, Daphne peered from the coach window. While not many from her class were out and about at this time of day, tradesmen were clogging the streets with huge conveyances. It took six strong horses to pull a wagon of Swedish turnips, and another was delivering ale throughout the Capital. More large wagons pulled by six stout horses carried building supplies: huge blocks of stone, stacks of wood, and bricks. Then there were the smaller rigs. They passed many donkey carts and several cabriolets driven by men who were better dressed.

She was so amused watching the great assortment of workers, she hadn't realized they had crossed much of London's West End when their carriage came to a stop, and the coachman came to open their door.

"We're here already?"

"My dear wife, it has taken us nearly an hour to get here."

"Well, we did have one stop." She looked up at the row of terraced houses. The one they were in front of was constructed of red brick and rose to five stories. Its white front door was badly in need of a fresh coat of paint.

One look at the place convinced her she would have no problem being allowed into Mr. Strickland's rooms. If there should be any problem (But who would raise a brow at a well-dressed lady accompanied by two well-dressed men this early in the day?), she could always pull out the key that never failed to open doors: her title. It was really quite amazing how the English populace fawned over aristocrats.