The Gentleman and the Thief

by Sarah M. Eden

  Ana rode alone to the Darby house. The carriage had arrived unoccupied. Neither was Hollis at his brother’s house when she arrived. The butler let her in, and a chambermaid escorted her to the music room.

  She missed Hollis, and not merely because she needed to tell him what she’d seen. Her heart missed him.

  Eloise was ushered inside not long after Ana arrived. She trudged to the piano.

  “Is something the matter, sweetheart?” she asked. The little girl was usually enthusiastic about her lessons.

  Her shoulders hunched. “Mama and Addison have gone to visit Grandmother and Grandfather, and I didn’t get to go with them.”

  “Because of your music lesson?”

  Eloise nodded.

  “We could have changed your lesson to another day.”

  Her pout was both heartbreaking and adorable. “I told Mama, but she said no.”

  “Would you like me to tell her, when next I see her, that in the future, you should be permitted to skip your lessons in order to visit with your grandparents?”

  “Yes, please, Miss Newport.” Her spirits appeared to lift. She climbed onto the stool. “I didn’t practice on Wednesday or Thursday. I was going to tell you I did, but Mama says I’m not supposed to tell fibs.” Eloise shrugged. “And Uncle Hollis says I’m supposed to be nice to you.”

  “Your uncle Hollis is a very kind gentleman.”

  “He says you’re the prettiest music teacher in England.” Eloise made the declaration quite seriously and quite without realizing her uncle might not appreciate her sharing that particular idea. “And he says you play the violin brilliantly. And he says he likes to talk with you. And he says you don’t complain about being cold when you ride with him in the park, even though he didn’t bring a carriage blanket for you.”

  “Good heavens, Eloise.” She didn’t know whether to laugh or dissolve into a puddle of embarrassment. “How often does your uncle talk with you about me?”

  “Sometimes.” Eloise plunked a few keys with her right index finger. “He came to see Mama yesterday. Mama was sad about Papa—I don’t know why—and Uncle Hollis said he was angry with Papa—I don’t know that why either—and they talked.”

  “About me?”

  Eloise kicked her feet back and forth. “And Papa. And me. And sharp cards.”

  “Sharp cards?”

  “I don’t know what that is. Mama didn’t know, either.”

  A suspicion formed in Ana’s mind, one revolving around a word she’d read about in a penny dreadful. Fitting, really. “Do you think your uncle might have said ‘card sharps’?”

  Eloise thought a moment, then nodded.

  A “card sharp,” Ana understood, was an American term for someone who cheated at cards. Hollis was worried about something underhanded his brother was involved in, and he had been discussing his brother whilst referencing card sharps. The puzzle pieces slipped quickly into place.

  His family’s finances were precarious as it was, and his brother was risking it all by gambling.

  Mr. Lewiston was involved in the same, and he had been at the Thompsons’ house only the day before. Perhaps that was the reason for the constant flow of visitors there. It had been turned into an upper-class gambling establishment.

  Eloise made a half-hearted attempt at playing the practice piece she’d been assigned for that week. Ana had the distinct impression the girl could play it better than she was, but her heart wasn’t in it. She’d seen it happen to other girls at Thurloe now and then.

  “Sweetheart,” she said, “would you like to do something other than play the piano today?”

  “Oh, yes, please.” She spun and faced Ana. “Could we read a story? Uncle Hollis tells me stories about a school where ghosts learn to be ghosts and the teachers are all ghosts, but now there’s a real boy at the school.”

  Ana bit back a smile.

  Eloise sighed contentedly. “He tells me the best stories.”

  What would the famous Lafayette Jones think if he knew this little girl gave her uncle credit for his stories? If the man had a heart at all, he would be happy to know his tales brought joy to this family.

  At the sound of footsteps, they both turned toward the door. Mr. Randolph Darby stood in the doorway, eyes wide. He wore a blue-and-green plaid suit. Bright colors. Large pattern.

  Mercy.

  “Is Hollis here?” He sounded panicked.

  “N—No, sir,” Ana said. “He didn’t come with me today.”

  Mr. Darby muttered something and turned to leave.

  He had been at Thompsons’. He was Mr. Lewiston’s companion. Mercy.

  “Parker!” Mr. Darby’s roar echoed from down the corridor. “Lock the doors, Parker!”

  Eloise’s sweet face held confusion and worry. Ana put her arm around the little girl.

  “Papa sounds scared, Miss Newport.”

  He did, indeed.

  Someone pounded at the front door. Not an ordinary knock, not even an anxious one. Pounding. Fearsome, angry, threatening pounding.

  “Parker!” Mr. Darby bellowed.

  “Miss Newport,” Eloise whimpered.

  Ana took the girl’s hand and helped her off the piano stool. Together, they tiptoed toward the door of the music room. The front door rattled so hard Ana swore she heard splintering.

  “Miss Newport.” Parker, the butler, came running down the corridor. “Get Miss Eloise out. Get her away from here, wherever you can take her.”

  Good heavens.

  “And Mr. Darby?”

  “I’ll look after him, miss.” Parker pulled her out of the music room and nudged her toward the back of the house. “There’s a set of French doors at the back of the ballroom. Slip out that way and get far from here.”

  The sound of wood breaking sent Ana into a near-panic.

  Parker set something in her hand. “Find Mr. Hollis. Give him this and tell him what’s happened. Go.”

  He shoved her. She gripped Eloise’s hand tighter, and they ran.

  by Mr. King

  Installment V,

  in which our intrepid Couple give chase and discover more than Expected!

  Tillie was going to land herself in deep trouble chasing after a mystery on the moors. Many a soul had grown hopelessly lost in the vast nothingness of the wild hills.

  Wellington called her name, but the wind carried it away. He ran after her, reaching her just as she reached the blue flame. But it had disappeared without a trace. No one stood where the flame had been, carrying a candle or torch or lantern.

  “You saw it this time, di’n’t you?” She looked up at him.

  “I did.” He stared at the spot where the flame had vanished.

  She nodded again and again. “And you can see for yourself there ain’t nothing it could’ve been a reflection of or anything we might’ve simply mis-seen.”

  “We didn’t mis-see. But what did we see?” He turned his head, slowly, searching.

  Tillie looked around as well. “There.” She pointed into the distance. “It’s there.”

  And so it was. A blue flame, just far enough to be barely visible. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was moving.

  “We’ll catch it this time, Tillie.” He snatched up her hand and ran with her out onto the moors.

  On and on they went. Whenever they drew closer, the flame disappeared, only to reappear elsewhere a moment later. The mystic blue flame led them on a chase over hills, down rounded valleys. Over and over and over. Still, it eluded them.

  Exhaustion was setting in, mingled with a heavy dose of frustration. What if their quarry proved uncatchable? How could they endure endless years of pilfering and thievery?

  They stood breathless on the gaping moors, waiting for their prey to reappear. How long had they been chasing it? How far afield would it lead them?

/>   “Why hasn’t it come back?” Tillie whispered, spinning about, eyeing the landscape. “It’s been gone longer this time.”

  The flame was nowhere to be seen. But something could be heard.

  “What was that?” He turned in the direction of the sound.

  “It sounded like a child cryin’.”

  “Out here?” Merciful heavens, a child lost on the moors was in danger indeed. “Hulloo?” he called out. “Where are you, child?”

  A whimper answered, one hardly loud enough to be heard. But hear it, they did. Tillie, her hand still in his, pulled him around more bends and over a hill as they followed the heartrending cries.

  “We have to find the poor child, Wellington.”

  “We will,” he vowed.

  And they did. A tiny, shivering boy, likely no more than six or seven years old, cowered behind a large rock, eyes wide with fear.

  Tillie approached first. She could be mischievous and adventurous. Her temper could flare hot, or she could be tender as a newborn lamb. In that moment, she was soft and quiet and still.

  She knelt beside the boy and gently, slowly, set her hand on his arm. “Are you lost, dearie?”

  “I were running away.” Tears clogged the child’s voice.

  Wellington knelt next to Tillie. “Why were you running?”

  “I’d’ve been in a heap o’ trouble.”

  Tillie sat beside the child. “You’ll be in a mountain of it if you’re out here when it grows dark. Come with us, dearie. We’ll see to it you have food in your belly and a warm fire.”

  “I’ll be in trouble.”

  “You won’t be, I swear to it.” Tillie looked to Wellington. “Will he?”

  “Not a bit of trouble,” Wellington said. “We’ll take good care of you.”

  The boy shook his head. “You’ll be angry at me.”

  “Why would we be angry with you?” Wellington could not ignore the real worry in the child’s expression.

  The boy took a shaky breath. “Because I stole it.”

  Wellington met Tillie’s eye. Could this little slip of a child be their elusive thief?

  “It’s not him,” Tillie whispered, apparently understanding his unspoken question.

  “He’s just said he stole something.”

  She shook her head firmly. “It’s not him.”

  The little boy whimpered. His safety needed to come first.

  “Come along,” Wellington said. “We’ll see to it you’re fed and warm, then we’ll settle whatever needs settling.”

  He agreed, but clearly wasn’t at all convinced he was safe. Tillie took the boy’s hand and smiled reassuringly. The child walked alongside them but didn’t speak. Wellington kept a weather eye out, watching for the elusive blue flame, but it made no return appearance. He suspected Tillie was keeping close watch as well.

  They arrived at the Combses’ cottage just as the sky was turning pink with the first blush of the coming sunset.

  Mr. Combs was home and eyed them with curiosity. “You’ve found a child.”

  “On the moors,” Tillie said, leading their new addition to the low-burning fire. “We were chasing the same phantom I saw at Summerworth.”

  “You were?” Mr. Combs looked to Wellington. “Did you see it as well?”

  “I did. We attempted to catch it, but it proved too fast and agile.”

  “Of course it did.” Mr. Combs actually snorted with disdain, though there was no unkindness in the sound. “No one can catch a bluecap.”

  A bluecap? Wellington had heard of redcaps, murderous little goblins, but he was not familiar with this variety of spirit. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “A little creature that appears as a blue flame, wandering about on its own, popping from place to place.”

  Precisely what they’d seen.

  “Is it known to steal things?” Wellington asked.

  Mr. Combs shook his head. “Not generally, but it expects to be paid. If no one is paying it, the sprite might be . . . collecting payment on its own.”

  “What would I be paying this creature for?” Wellington could not make sense of it at all.

  “The bluecap is found in mines,” Mr. Combs said. “The miners pay it for warning them about cave-ins.”

  “My house is not a mine, and there is no danger of a cave-in.”

  “It may be doing something else,” Tillie said. “Something it thinks it ought to be paid to do.”

  Could this truly be the cause of his difficulties? A little creature that ought not to be anywhere near his house?

  He motioned subtly to the little boy, huddled under a blanket near the fire. “The little one confessed to stealing.”

  Tillie shook her head. “It isn’t him. He couldn’t have moved the mirror or the painting.”

  “But the other things, maybe?” Heavens, did he have more than one thief?

  “I didn’t steal anything from you, sir.” The little boy’s voice was filled with misery.

  “Then what did you steal?” Wellington asked.

  The child took a quavering breath. “The blue flame.”

  The Thompsons’ place grew busier every day, practically every minute. Though the gentlemen still arrived in pairs, they now came practically on each other’s heels. The comings and goings never stopped, not late at night, not early in the morning, not at midday.

  “With Headley part of it all, it has to be gambling.” Hollis made the whispered observation for likely the twentieth time since he and Brogan had come to the Newport home. He wanted to believe ill-advised games of chance were all that was happening across the street, but his gut insisted there was more to it than that.

  “’Tis only gentlemen going in and out the front, but I’d be surprised if they were the only ones taking part.” Brogan kept his voice quiet, as well. They never spoke above a whisper, not wanting to give their presence away.

  “I’m picturing a seedy copper hell inside.” He handed Brogan the telescope, relinquishing his place at the window.

  “Even after seeing your brother there yesterday?”

  Hollis shook his head. “I’m not convinced that was my brother.” He hadn’t been the one on lookout when Brogan thought he’d seen Randolph.

  “You’re also not convinced your lady love is a sticky-fingered thief.”

  “I’ve told you I’ll not discuss that.” Until he could formulate a reasonable explanation, he refused to even think about Ana’s involvement in all this.

  Brogan watched the street through the handheld telescope. “I’d say they’re near to doubling the in-and-out over there.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Hollis said. “If they’re playing high-stakes games that are ruining people, they’d have few takers for future games.”

  “They have takers—and plenty.” Brogan lowered the telescope. Though his gaze remained on the street, his thoughts appeared to be on something else. “For a time, while Móirín and I were giving aid in Maida Hill, there was a house that always seemed busy. The local working people knew it to be one where unsavory things were happening. Everyone knew it, but the flow of people never slowed.”

  Brogan and his sister frequented the poor neighborhoods, helping people, bringing food and supplies, teaching them skills to help them find work. They spent a fair amount of time in some very questionable areas of Town.

  “Did you ever discover why people kept coming to that house?”

  Brogan looked back at him. “Same thing that kept the little chimney sweep we rescued last year with his master for so long.”

  “Violence.”

  Brogan nodded. “And threats.”

  Hollis crossed back to the window. Two more gentlemen were waiting at the door. “There’s a tangled web on the other side of that door; I know it.”

  “And a four-fi
ngered spider, I’d wager.”

  Hollis rubbed the back of his neck. “Very Merry still doesn’t sleep well at night. And she won’t talk in any detail about him.”

  “’Tis a deuced shame he escaped the police after that fire. I thought we’d cleared the streets of him.”

  Hollis sighed. “So did I.”

  Voices broke the silence in the next room. Wallace and Mr. Newport were generally quiet. Hollis listened more closely.

  “Is that a woman’s voice?”

  Brogan shrugged. “I didn’t see Ana arrive.”

  “Who else could it be?”

  The voices stopped. Then footsteps sounded. Growing closer. Too close.

  Brogan and Hollis moved quickly and quietly in their stockinged feet and tucked themselves into the dark corner on the other side of the curio. They’d not be spotted should the door open.

  Which it did.

  Wallace stepped inside. He looked around the room, turning, until he spotted them. His gaze stopped on Hollis. He held up a penny between his thumb and forefinger, just long enough for Hollis to take note of it, then tossed it to him.

  Hollis caught it. He checked the markings. “This is Parker’s.”

  Wallace nodded.

  “Is he here?”

  “He ain’t. But he sent it.”

  “With whom?”

  “Miss Newport. And your niece.”

  “Eloise?” Worry surged.

  “Little one’s been cryin’. Miss Newport looks to be in a full blue funk.”

  Eloise was here, and Ana was terrified? This bordered on disaster.

  “Did you tell her we were in here?” Brogan asked.

  Wallace shook his head. “Only said I’d get the penny to Mr. Hollis.”

  “Something terrible must’ve happened. I can’t waste time pretending I’m being fetched.”

  Brogan moved toward the window. “Think of something to tell her. Keep mum about me being in here.”

  Something to tell her. He hadn’t the first idea what that was going to be. He quickly pulled on his shoes, then moved to Mr. Newport’s room.