“If she said so, then it is most certainly true.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Eloise’s head as he passed.
“And Miss Eloise says I am the ‘most pretty teacher in all of London,’” Ana said with a laugh.
“And that is most certainly true.” He didn’t kiss her—he hadn’t that right by anyone’s estimation—but he did wink. That was also a stretch of propriety, but switching quickly from “covert spy” to “unfailingly proper gentleman” was not always easily managed, especially when what he’d learned through his spying was worrisome.
Alistair Headley was in the stew up to his beady little eyeballs. And Randolph was spending time with the man. No good could come of that. No good whatsoever.
by Mr. King
Installment II,
in which our Hero begins an Investigation and accepts a most unusual Challenge!
Wellington had all but forgotten what a mischievous delight Tillie was. She arrived at Summerworth for their investigation with a jest-filled list of suspects, including everything from “a dog with a poor upbringing” to “a flock of magpies with remarkable coordination.”
Her laughter had ever been a source of utter delight to him—to all, in fact. Had ever the heavens blessed a soul with so happy a disposition as she?
“I believe we would do well to begin where the items have gone missing,” he said. “Most have disappeared from my sitting area.”
“Your private rooms?” She clasped a hand to her heart. “How very scandalous!” Amusement twinkled in her eyes.
“It is a fortunate thing this house is empty,” Wellington said. “You would have all the countryside whispering about me.”
“Is that why you never invite me up to the house any longer?” Though her humor remained, a touch of earnestness had entered her tone.
“I ought to have come by your cottage any number of times these past years,” he said. “The weight of grief can crush one’s judgment.”
She took his hand, as she’d so often done in their younger years. “Don’t you fret it, Welly. We’ve a mystery to solve, you and I. That’ll lift your spirits.”
Was ever a man so undeservedly blessed with so forgiving a friend? They walked hand in hand up the stairs and down the corridor. She turned toward what had been his rooms when they were children.
“No, Tillie. I am in the master’s rooms now.”
She laughed lightly. “I forget sometimes how very much has changed since we were children.”
“You haven’t changed,” he said.
She pulled away, preceding him across the threshold of the master’s chambers, but tossed back over her shoulder, “You might be surprised.”
Wellington had spent his share of time amongst the ladies of Society and their practiced primness. Tillie was a breath of utterly and joyfully fresh air.
“Now.” She stopped in the middle of the room. “What has gone missing?”
He joined her. “A painting off that wall.” He pointed. “My father’s pocket watch. Two necklaces that once belonged to my mother that I have kept in my bureau as a reminder of her. A pair of pearl cuff links.”
“Blimey,” she muttered. “You’re being pillaged.”
“I know it. And this isn’t the only room from which items are missing.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Smith would not have taken them.” Tillie had known his two remaining servants her whole life and knew well their goodness and utter trustworthiness. No, there was no question of the Smiths being anything other than loyal and good and true.
“I’ve not had visitors in months,” he said. “And no tradesmen have come to the door. I cannot sort it. Indeed, it is a question that sits heavy upon my mind.”
“How large was the painting?” Tillie asked.
“One grown person could carry it,” he said, “but not without effort.”
Her face twisted in an expression of contemplation. Wellington smiled from his very heart at the once-familiar sight. While she had always been of a playful disposition, no one who had known her could doubt her intelligence.
“Were any other large items taken?” she asked.
“Yes. Some that would be difficult to sneak away with.”
She turned to him, excitement sparkling in her deep-brown eyes. “Any too large to remove far without a cart?”
He thought over his list. “A heavy gilded mirror disappeared from my mother’s room. That could not be carried far, even by several people.”
“Do you realize what this means?” She took hold of his arm, bouncing in place. “No one has come or gone. The mirror, at least, must still be in this house. Your blighter likely tucked it away somewhere to nip off with later.”
What a stroke of genius! What a needed bit of luck! “If we discover where the things are hidden, we can reclaim them.”
She nodded. “You’ll have your treasures back and might even catch yourself a thief.”
Oh, rapturous discovery! This time he seized her hand. “I know precisely where we ought to look first.”
“We should do this more often, Wellington.”
He laughed. How long had it been since he had well and truly laughed? Tillie had always been his sunshine on rainy days. He’d been a fool not to reach out to her during the storms of the past years.
They moved swiftly down the servants’ stairs into the dim silence below.
“I thought we agreed Mr. and Mrs. Smith weren’t our thieves,” she said.
“They aren’t. But most of the rooms on this level are shut up and never used. There is an exit on this floor of the house with no stairs to navigate.”
“Ah.” She nodded her understanding. “A perfect arrangement for slipping ill-gotten goods out unseen.”
The belowstairs was quiet. Only the ever-blowing wind off the moors rattling the windows broke the silence. This had once been the bustling center of a lively household. Now it was little more than a cavern. Life too often demanded exacting tolls.
With an eager bounce to her step, Tillie began searching the rooms. “No pilfered goods in here, guv’nuh,” she called out.
“I object to ‘guv’nuh’ as much as I did to ‘sir,’” he said. “And, for the record, I’m no longer overly fond of ‘Welly.’”
She plopped her fists on her hips and, standing outside the next room she meant to search, said, “You’ve become quite the pompous bore, Wellington Quincey.”
“I have not.”
Her head tipped to the side in a pose of theatrical disbelief. “Then prove it.”
“And how would you propose I ‘prove it’?”
A slow, sly grin spread over her face. “A race. I will check the rooms on this side of the corridor; you check the other side. The first one to the other end wins.”
“A footrace?” He shook his head. “We are not eight years old any longer.”
“Precisely what a pompous bore would say.” Though she still smiled, unmistakable disappointment flickered across her face.
He could not bear to disappoint his oldest friend, not when she had just that day brought the first flicker of light back into his gloomy existence.
With an air of determination, he pulled off his jacket and hung it on the handle of the nearest door. “Prepare yourself for defeat, Tillie Combs.”
“You did not best me when were children, and you won’t now.”
She rushed to her first room. He did as well.
Nothing was amiss. The next room proved the same. As he stepped out into the corridor, Tillie was just slipping into her third room.
“You are falling behind,” she called back.
Twice in one morning she had made him laugh. How he had needed her in his life!
He pulled open the door of the next room he was meant to check. Before he could so much as glance inside, a scream pierced the air.
Tilli
e!
Ana set out late the next night, clad in a drab dress with only one thin petticoat and leather slippers. She had a secret pouch tucked in a well-hidden pocket in her skirt, one large enough to hold a porcelain figurine Mother had given her for her twelfth birthday. Her destination was the home of Mr. George Mortimer, the man who’d taken that treasure from her.
The Mortimers had been invited to a soiree in another area of Town. The house would be relatively quiet. She would have a small window of opportunity during which the servants would be abed but the family would not yet have returned. She’d watched the house enough the past weeks to know its routine.
Both servants’ entrances, front and back, would be locked; they always were. But the door to the herb room never was, and it contained a door leading inside. She wasn’t certain where that door lead precisely, but she’d been inside enough homes of this age to have a fairly good guess.
The aroma of rosemary and thyme, sage and dill filled the room, offering an olfactory welcome to her, an uninvited woman. Her single petticoat let her dress hug her body more closely, allowing her to slip more easily through narrow spaces. It, along with her soft-soled shoes, kept her movements quiet.
She’d once been a lady of some standing and position. Now she was a thief. Fickle fate, indeed.
The interior door of the herb room opened to a dark, narrow corridor. A dim light at the end illuminated what she was certain was the main corridor of the servants’ wing in the basement. She moved quickly but carefully.
Her guess proved bang-up.
The corridor was lit only by light spilling from a room at the other end of the main corridor, likely the housekeeper’s or butler’s room. She slipped silently to the first stairwell she found. It hadn’t quite the noticeable wear marks one would find on the main servants’ stairs, and while there’d be less risk of being caught if she took this path upward, she didn’t dare take the chance that it led directly to a bedchamber or someplace else she’d be harder-pressed to escape.
A bit farther up the corridor she found the main stairs. She followed them up and around, emerging onto an unadorned landing on the ground level.
She felt certain her figurine would be in Mr. Mortimer’s library or study. He’d been so gleefully smug when he’d taken it, calling it a “victory memento.” He’d have placed it somewhere he could look at it with triumph every time he utilized the assets he’d seized from Father’s company.
Some townhomes placed libraries on the ground level, some on the first floor. Some were at the front of the house, others were at the back. This retrieval might prove a multi-night endeavor, as too many had before.
She found a sitting room, a small coat closet, a drawing room. Nearly halfway to the back of the house, she came across the very room she was searching for. Luck was with her tonight.
Ana pulled the pouch from her pocket. She took out a small copper candleholder and fit a tiny candle in it. She set it on an obliging table and used the match she’d brought to light it. The tiny flicker of flame was enough for her to see what she needed without spilling light out of the room.
She stepped toward the large cherrywood desk, evaluating the space as she moved. Paintings in ornate frames. An intricate ormolu clock. A high-polished silver salver holding a collection of fine spirits in crystal decanters. On the desk sat a pair of casually discarded cuff links. This man, so wealthy he could leave diamonds lying about and surround himself with items of inarguable monetary value, had stolen a young girl’s beloved figurine to be spiteful. He could have bought hundreds just like it. The knickknack had no value beyond the sentimental.
She set the candle on the desktop, then sat in his chair. He would have placed her figurine somewhere he could see it from that vantage point. Mr. Mortimer was taller than she, so she eyed the space a little higher than her gaze naturally fell. From left to right, she scanned each shelf, each tabletop, each cranny.
Her “adventures” had taught her to be patient and take her time. It paid off again. Her beloved figurine was on a midlevel shelf to the right of the desk, tucked amongst an odd assortment of other figurines, miniatures, and small knickknacks. Ana stood and crossed to it.
She reached for it without disturbing anything else. When her fingers wrapped around it, she swallowed back a lump of emotion. She’d missed this sweet, little reminder of her mother’s love. Holding it carefully, Ana returned to the desk and the tiny light of her candle. The figurine was of a young woman in a colorful dress, reminiscent of the century before, holding a violin. She stood on a base of what was meant to look like a tree, but it wasn’t very convincing. Nothing about it could have appealed to Mr. Mortimer other than the pain he knew losing it would inflict on Father’s family.
“But I have it back now,” she whispered.
She slipped it in her hidden pocket. Mission accomplished, she studied the library. A ground-floor exit would be easier than slipping back through the servants’ wing. Sure enough, a set of French doors led out to what appeared to be a terrace.
Ana blew out the candle, then moved swiftly out the French doors. She closed them behind her, slowly enough the only sound was the tiny click of the latch.
The terrace was adequately shadowed. By keeping close to the house, she and her shapeless dress stayed hidden. She needed only to reach the side gate of the back garden and she could slip out and away without having been noted by anyone. Again, patience was the key.
She turned a corner. The gate was within sight. She was nearly out of danger.
Whispering voices broke the silence of the back garden. Men. At least two.
Ana hunched down, slipping behind a low shrub. It was entirely in shadow; she wasn’t likely to be seen. Provided the men didn’t remain in the garden all night, she could slip out once they left.
“Mortimers are gone for a few more hours at least,” one of them said. “If the Phantom Fox is coming back, it’ll be tonight, mark me.”
Phantom Fox. That was the nickname whispered about the streets in reference to none other than herself. Her efforts had begun to draw notice. If her reclamations weren’t so important, she might have given them up.
“The front door was locked,” said the second man. Though Ana was no expert in the various accents of the world, she was relatively certain this man hailed from India.
“The rear door is as well.” The first man spoke again. He was English, and she would guess he’d had some education. “A sneak thief with any degree of ability won’t be stopped by that.”
Certainly not.
“Test the windows and doors on that side,” the English-man said. “I’ll check ’em here.”
Ana’s hiding spot was far enough from any windows or doors to keep her safely hidden. Still, it wasn’t terribly comfortable. The candle had cooled enough to tuck it and the copper candleholder back in her carrying pouch and into her pocket. With her hands free, she tucked her legs against her chest and wrapped her arms around them, pulling herself into a tight, more fully concealed ball.
The silhouette of one of the searchers was visible from her hiding place. He was tall and leanly built. He wore a long, dark coat, and a misshapen hat pulled low on his head. He moved with confidence and agility. Were he to catch her, she would be hard-pressed to run fast enough to evade capture. Keeping still and silent was her best course of action.
The man tested one window after another without making the slightest noise. That didn’t happen on accident. Who was this man? What was his connection to the Mortimer house?
He stepped onto the terrace and checked the French doors she had used to escape. She’d had no means of locking it behind her. As quietly as he had opened it, the man slid the door closed once more. He turned.
She held her breath.
After a moment, he moved to the next set of windows, checking each one. He moved past the shrub she hid behind.
His compani
on returned.
“The terrace door weren’t locked,” he reported. “All the windows were, though.”
“The herb room door wasn’t, either,” his partner said. “A word of warning in the ears of the butler wouldn’t go astray.”
“And the house is quiet. Perhaps they dodged this particular train.”
“For now,” the other man said.
They made a slow circuit of the gardens, both eyeing the house. Ana’s feet were growing tingly from being held in one place for so long, but she didn’t dare adjust her position even the tiniest bit.
Even after the men had slipped through the garden gate, she remained still. Autumn was newly arrived and the evenings were not terribly chilly. She could stay as long as she needed with no fear of freezing.
When she at last rose from her hiding spot, she moved with even more caution than before. Only when she reached the safety of her own room at Thurloe did she fully breathe again.
That had been a nearer run-in than most of her reacquisition missions. She had her figurine back, but the risk had been enormous.
No matter that the items she “stole” had been stolen from her in the first place, she knew enough of the inhumanity and injustice of the law to have any hope she would be heard or believed.
Her family deserved to have back what the leeches had robbed them of, but if she were caught righting that wrong, it would cost her absolutely everything she had left.
I’ll pummel you,” Fletcher offered Hollis as a friendly warning. It’d been a long time since they’d gone a round or two in the boxing salon at DPS headquarters. Fletcher never would admit that Hollis could hold his own.
“I’m not looking for a match,” Hollis said. “I’m trying to think through some things.”
Fletcher nodded. “Exertion clears the mind.”
“Especially when that mind was empty to begin with,” Brogan tossed out. The man never could resist a jest.
Stone, sitting in a well-worn chair in the far corner, watched without comment. But he was listening. Stone was always listening.
The Gentleman and the Thief Page 6
