From the other side of Mr. Walker, who sat beside Elizabeth, Mr. Darby leaned forward enough to meet her eye.
“Lovely.” He mouthed the word, but she could clearly make it out.
She smiled her gratitude, and relaxed. Though Mr. Darby didn’t know the entirety of what weighed on her, his support proved deeply reassuring.
The remaining performers were quite good, their selections pleasing and well-executed. At the conclusion of the performances, the gathering rose from their seats and began mingling as they made their way to the refreshment table.
Ana kept a tight hold on her violin case—she would need it—and made her way purposefully but unobtrusively to where Mrs. Sudworth had been sitting. Her quarry had risen along with the rest of the attendees but hadn’t gone far.
A diamond necklace sparkled above her neckline. Rings adorned nearly every finger. A silver bracelet sat amongst a half dozen pearl ones. Gems even glittered in her hair. She could have been made a permanent exhibit in the Tower of London directly beside the Crown Jewels and would not have looked out of place.
The woman noticed her and offered a quick, clearly rehearsed smile.
Ana curtseyed. “Mrs. Sudworth.”
No recognition touched the woman’s face. Not even the tiniest glint of familiarity. This woman had actively participated in the destruction of Ana’s family. Did she not remember her even the tiniest bit?
That was for the best, really.
“You played well,” Mrs. Sudworth said, dipping her head before turning her attention pointedly to her more distinguished companions.
“Forgive me for the interruption,” Ana said quietly and attempted to step around the group.
She bumped into Mrs. Sudworth, however, and not a light brush as she passed. Looks of disapproval and near disgust were cast at her, along with wrinkled noses and pursed lips.
Ana quickly regained her balance, offered a quick curtsey and a barely audible plea for forgiveness, before rushing off. She found a quiet corner of the room and sat, her violin case on her lap. Mr. Darby found her there a moment later.
“You seem to have become separated from us in the press.” He looked more closely at her. “Are you unwell? You seem shaken.”
“I bumped into someone. The crowd was too close. I suppose I’m a little embarrassed. And I likely should check that my violin was not damaged.”
“Make your inspection,” he said. “I’ll fetch you a glass of punch.”
He was such a kind man. Thoughtful and generous. And he seemed to think well of her, which he likely ought not.
As he slipped from view, Ana opened her violin case. It was the perfect excuse and the perfect pretense. She opened the small compartment where she stored her rosin and her polishing cloth. She tucked underneath them what she’d come to this musicale for and had, by a near miracle, managed to secure: a single silver bracelet.
Perhaps we should engage Mr. Walker’s help should fisticuffs be necessary. Miss Newport’s words from the evening before repeated in Hollis’s mind as he trudged down Garrick Street toward Covent Gardens. Boxing was not considered an ungentlemanly pursuit. Why, then, had Miss Newport assumed he would be inept at it? Fletcher was more obviously rough-and-tough, but Hollis could hold his own. Perhaps a round or two in the boxing salon at headquarters would put a bit of puff back in his pride. But first, he had a mission to undertake.
He spied Stone rounding the opposite corner. Hollis had bested Fletcher any number of times in the Dreadfuls’ boxing salon, but no one bested Stone.
Hollis and Stone came up even with one another.
“Fine day,” Hollis said.
“Care for a walk around the market?” Stone was not a man of many words. Speaking seven together at once was unusual for him.
“I’d fancy a stroll.” Hollis matched his stride.
This was not one of those missions which required the Dreadfuls to not be seen together. Stone had determined this particular task was best accomplished in as simple and direct a way as possible.
“After a late night, my legs could use a bit of a jaunt to finish waking up this morning,” Hollis said.
“Y’all shouldn’t stay out so late.”
“But if the evening is a fruitful one, the long hours are well worth it.”
They made an odd pair walking into the Covent Garden marketplace. London was not entirely without a diversity of appearances and accents, allowing Stone, despite his words heavily flavored with the sound of America’s South and his ancestry obvious at a glance, to not draw as much attention as he might have in a tiny hamlet tucked far from the roar of the metropolis. Yet, gentry coves—gentlemen of Hollis’s station—weren’t known for applauding that diversity.
“Was your evenin’ fruitful?” Stone asked.
“Not in the expected way,” Hollis said. “I’d hoped to see a couple of friends there, but they weren’t in attendance.”
The Dreadfuls were adept at discussing their secret activities without giving anything away. They could manage it even in a crowded marketplace.
“My friends’ absence seemed to strike most in attendance as odd,” Hollis added.
There was no verbal response; Hollis hadn’t expected one. Stone simply walked beside him, hands tucked in the pockets of his navy-blue tailcoat, eyes focused ahead, mouth drawn in a tight line.
“One was meant to attend with his wife, but she wasn’t there, either.”
Stone’s expression didn’t change even the tiniest bit, but Hollis knew he was listening.
“Our poor hostess was baffled,” Hollis said. “A few other people noted the absences as well.”
“Unfortunate for you,” Stone said.
From the other direction, Fletcher came walking toward them. The DPS generally avoided having three Dreadfuls out and about together, but fortunately, Hollis and Fletcher’s friendship was well-known, which would make their greeting one another unremarkable.
“Well met.” Hollis kept his tone light and unconcerned.
Fletcher held up the small bouquet of slightly wilted flowers in his hand. “Thought I’d take this humble offering to my lady love. Bought it off a little one not far from here.”
Ah. One of Fletcher’s rescued children, no doubt. He’d dedicated himself to saving London’s urchins from the horrors he, himself, had lived through. In the process, he’d created a complex network of street children who kept their eyes open and their ears to the ground and told him anything he needed to know.
“Did you get your penny’s worth?” Hollis asked, nodding toward the flowers.
“Got myself a shilling’s worth.” Fletcher walked with them. “My flower girl spotted our good friend Alistair, who disappointed Mrs. Kennard last night.”
Hollis jumped in. “Another friend who was absent,” he told Stone in a low voice.
The term “friend” was, of course, code. Most patrons they sought were mere acquaintances. Alistair Headley fell more in the category of nuisance.
“Seems he’s been seen about with Four-Finger Mike again, still up to his neck in something rotten,” Fletcher continued. “That foozler has his fingers in a couple of rancid pies.”
“And I’d guess gambling is part of the putrid recipe,” Hollis said.
They’d discovered that gambling was not Headley’s only questionable activity. He fraternized with a known criminal, Four-Finger Mike, who added to his list of crimes on a daily basis and had escaped police custody repeatedly.
“Perhaps Headley missed the musicale because he was at one of Four-Finger’s gambling dens,” Hollis said.
“Or up to somethin’ worse.” Fletcher’s look was too pointed for the remark to have been offhand. “Monsieur Thorn-in-Our-Side is frequenting lower and lower places, but he ain’t making his jaunts all by his lonesome.”
“Who is he with?” Hollis asked.
“That’s the million-guinea question, ain’t it?”
Headley was connected to Four-Finger Mike, who was, in turn, connected to the notorious criminal mastermind, the Mastiff, a man even the police feared. Four-Finger’s associations made Headley a source of suspicion.
“Maybe we need to walk on the man’s heels a bit,” Hollis said.
Fletcher shook his head. “You keep an ear to the ground in your circles. Leave the tailing to us.”
“I think I’ve proven myself able to hold my own.” He was forever being relegated to the role of observer-at-a-distance. He knew he could be more, and it was time they let him.
“Headley frequents rungs on the Ladder of Importance above the rest of us,” Fletcher said. “You’re the only one with access.”
Yes, but that didn’t have to be the limit of his contribution. “In the meantime, though—”
“Flexing muscles don’t do us a lick of good if we cain’t follow through,” Fletcher said.
A frustrating answer. “Maybe I could make a suggestion to the Dread Master.”
Their organization was run behind-the-scenes by a man known only as the Dread Master. Fletcher alone knew his actual identity. He answered to the mysterious man—they all did—but he steadfastly refused to reveal who the Dread Master was. Hollis was Fletcher’s best friend in all the world, and even he’d not been let in on the secret.
“I’ll ask him,” Fletcher said. “Meanwhile, best snuggle up to the fine and fancy. See what you can learn.”
Hollis met Stone’s eye but found no empathy there. He’d learned over the years that it did little good to press a matter if the majority of Dreadfuls present weren’t on the same page. “Since our two friends were out of reach last evening, we’re still short our goal for the Barton school. Shall we try again?”
Fletcher gave it a moment’s thought before nodding. “See if you can sniff out another gathering they’ve been invited to and get yourself on the guest list.”
Getting invited to parties—that was Fletcher’s highly important role for Hollis. The others thwarted criminals, saved lives, uncovered vast and dangerous plots. He went to parties.
Pathetic.
“And if someone’s being robbed at the next one, try to notice,” Stone said.
Fletcher looked as confused as Hollis felt.
“Mrs. Sudworth claims a silver bracelet of hers got filched from right off her wrist.”
“How could she tell?” Fletcher asked dryly.
Stone didn’t appear to understand.
“Jewelry drips off that woman like water off a dog in a rainstorm,” Fletcher explained.
Stone turned his attention to Hollis and, motioning to Fletcher with his head, said, “The reason he ain’t invited nowhere.”
“Fletch, you can’t compare a lady to a dog.”
Fletcher brushed that off with a smirk.
“She’s sure the bracelet was stolen during the musicale?” Hollis pressed. “It seems more likely she simply thought she’d put the bracelet on but didn’t. It’s probably at her house.”
“She says it ain’t.”
“Where does Mrs. Sudworth live?” Fletcher asked.
“Portland Place.” Hollis was not merely their resident party attender, he was also their address book of the influential.
“And where did we last track our little thiefling?” Fletcher asked.
“Marylebone,” Stone said.
In near perfect unison, they all nodded. Portland Place happened to be in the Marylebone area.
“We have to find that girl.” Fletcher never sounded more worried than he did when fretting over one of his urchins.
“Getting more notice?” Stone asked.
Fletcher nodded. “My urchins are calling her the Phantom Fox. Slipping in and out of even the busiest fine houses, making off with jewels and silver snuffboxes. Never gets caught. Never even gets seen. The baby girl’s good, but she’s frying fish too big for her pan, and she’s going to get burned.”
Stone motioned ahead of them with a jut of his chin. “Our mark.”
Huddled beside a fishmonger’s cart, a ragged urchin, likely not yet seven years old, sat with his head hung, not looking at anyone who passed. They’d heard, thanks to the gossip of a few different muffin-wallopers and tea-talkers, that he was being starved and beaten by the monger who’d obtained him as an unpaid work boy. The law let masters treat their apprentices as badly as they chose. The Dreadfuls allowed no such thing.
Stone wandered down a side path, serving as lookout. Fletcher browsed the flowers on a nearby cart. Hollis approached the fishmonger, assuming an air of importance and prosperity. He eyed the fish with a critical eye.
“I’ve a fine catch this morning,” the man said, motioning to a collection of river eel too slimy to have been caught within the last twenty-four hours. Hollis would be making no purchase, and not merely because his purpose in the mission was to distract the man.
“Anything other than eel?” he asked. “I’m not certain I trust eel from the Thames. It always seems to leave me green around the gills, as it were.”
“Not my eels, guv’nuh.”
“Tell me about them.” It was not a request. Until he’d been required to “play” the role of fine gentleman, Hollis hadn’t realized what a collection of puffed-up peacocks his fellow rung dwellers really were.
Beside him, Fletcher had hunched down next to the ragged child, completely hidden from the fishmonger’s view. Fletcher had a way with the children. He had once been an urchin himself, after all. If Hollis kept the boy’s master distracted long enough, Fletcher would slip him away. Stone would hang behind to make certain they weren’t followed. Hollis would depart in a different direction.
While the scraggly man, whose odor rivaled that of his goods, waxed oddly poetic about his putrid fish, Hollis kept track of the others. Fletcher made off with the little boy during the portion of Hollis’s eel-choosing lesson that covered the importance of bait. Stone followed their path as Hollis was learning about the man’s theory on keeping fresh-caught fish fresh, the efficacy of which was called into question by the contents of his own cart.
“I will consider it.” Hollis dropped the disingenuous remark—he’d also come to a harsh realization of how dishonest upper-class people could be—and went on his way. He’d every intention of exiting the market and doubling back to headquarters to debrief with Stone since Fletcher would be gone for a while taking the little boy to one of their safe houses.
But he didn’t get that far. Randolph along with his wife, Cora, and their children, Eloise and Addison, were standing among the flower carts directly between him and his path out. It was a good thing Hollis was alone. His brother knew of and grudgingly accepted his friendship with Fletcher but had made clear his preference that his wife and children not be “exposed” to Fletcher’s less-than-pristine manners and style of speaking. Heaven only knew what his reaction would be to Stone. Hollis didn’t particularly care to find out.
He slipped a coin to the first flower seller he passed and purchased a small handful of pansies. With quick and quiet step, he managed to sneak up on his eight-year-old niece. Bending low enough to be nearly eye level with her, he offered the flowers. “For you, my dear.”
“Uncle Hollis!” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I asked Father ‘Do you suppose we’ll see Uncle Hollis at Covent Gardens?’ and he said he did not believe we would. But I knew we would. I knew!”
Hollis slipped her arms free of his neck and placed the pansies in her hand. He took her other hand in his own. “Seems to me, dear brother, you ought to have greater faith in your daughter’s ability to predict the future.”
Eloise had been a favorite of his ever since she was a baby. She had the Darby stubbornness but a healthy dose of her mother’s more contemplative side.
“How
are you, Hollis?” Cora asked. “I’ve not seen you this age.”
“Randolph already scolded me for neglecting to come for dinner. I do intend to rectify that, I promise you.” He looked to Eloise once more. “I attended a musicale last evening, and do you know what I thought to myself again and again?”
“What?”
“That, given ten years or so, I would be sitting in a fine room like that listening to my Eloise play music for everyone.” He leaned closer. “Have you been practicing as your governess asked?”
“Miss Dowling has no musical ability.” Eloise made the observation with the unmistakable inflection of someone repeating something they’d heard said a few times.
His gaze shifted to the girl’s parents. Randolph nodded subtly but unmistakably, motioning them onward, toward the nearest end of the market. Little Addison walked with his hand firmly held by his mother. Hollis kept Eloise at his side.
“Miss Dowling is an excellent governess, but she is rather hopeless at musical instruction,” Cora said. “I suppose we will have little choice but to employ a musical tutor.”
The family’s financial situation was not an easy one. Could they afford a tutor? Sweet Eloise received so much enjoyment from what little music she’d learned to play. It would be a shame to take that away from her.
“Perhaps if you had a teacher come in once a week to offer instruction,” Hollis said. “That arrangement could likely be made for a reasonable—”
Randolph shot him a look of warning. Talking about money was considered rather lower-class. Ironic, really, considering money was a significant part of what separated the classes.
Hollis changed the ending of his sentence. “—effort. In fact, I know a teacher of music who would be an excellent choice.”
“Do you?” Cora was clearly intrigued.
“She is a lady, by birth though no longer by fortune. She currently teaches at Thurloe Collegiate School, which is an excellent school for girls from respectable families. Her abilities and standing are so well regarded that she, just last evening, graced Mrs. Kennard’s musicale with an astoundingly impressive performance.”
The Gentleman and the Thief Page 3
