The Gentleman and the Thief

by Sarah M. Eden

  “Pessimism is not in my nature. Even my father, who did absolutely nothing to earn anyone’s good opinion, kept mine far longer than he deserved.”

  Hollis kept hold of one of her hands and led her to the small sofa near the unlit fire. She sat beside him, not quite as cozy as she had the night before, but close and congenial.

  “Now,” he said, “how is it you came to join the League of Humble Housebreakers?”

  She looked up at him. “Is that an actual organization?”

  “It ought to be.”

  Her smile blossomed. “You are an unusual sort of gentleman, Hollis Darby.”

  “Yes, but am I your favorite sort of gentleman?”

  Ana was a delight to tease. She enjoyed his silly jests, even blushed a little. And she didn’t hold a grudge when they had a misunderstanding. She allowed him to explain, gave him the chance to make things right.

  “Do you remember I told you that, after my father’s business failed, some of his investors descended on our house and stole things?”

  He nodded. “I remember.”

  “They stole those things. The debt owed to them had already been paid. They had no claim on the things they took.” Her gaze dropped to their clasped hands. “So those things still belong to me, no matter that they are currently in someone else’s possession. Stealing something doesn’t change its rightful ownership.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “And a person can’t steal something that already belongs to her.”

  Ah. “Your ‘thieving’ focuses on items that are already yours.”

  “Exclusively.” She took a breath, her shoulders lifting. “I only take things that were stolen from my family, and only if they are still in the possession of the person who took them. If an item has since been sold to someone else, I don’t . . . ‘steal’ it. The person who has it now is guilty only of paying for something that never should have been sold.”

  He rubbed her hand with his, hoping to encourage her and show her he was listening and not condemning.

  “Those things my father’s partner stole himself and then pawned or gambled away, I don’t ‘steal’ either.”

  “Because the people who have those items aren’t the ones who stole them in the first place?”

  She nodded. “The things they have are still mine, but I would be punishing an innocent person by taking them back.”

  “Your heart must break, though, not having those things back.”

  Ana leaned against him. “I’ve been able to buy a few of them. That won’t be possible for some time now, though. I don’t have a job.”

  “Elizabeth told me—no, ‘told’ isn’t the right word.” He made a show of contemplating. “‘Threatened.’ That’s the right one.”

  “She threatened you?”

  He flashed her a smile. “It seems your departure did not meet with her approval.”

  Ana sighed. “You sorted out my questionable hobby. If anyone else did and word got around, it would destroy the reputation of her school. I cannot risk that. I never should have in the first place.”

  He put his free arm around her. “How long have you been in the thieving business?”

  “Two years.”

  Two years. He’d only begun hearing of her exploits in the past two months, and only because a couple of street children had grown sloppy in their own efforts. That was, to be perfectly honest, impressive.

  “I have every legal right to the items I’ve reclaimed,” she said, “but I have no guarantee the law would see it that way. And, of course, there’s the matter of entering a house without permission. What I’ve done occupies a gray area of right and wrong. Lives are ruined by gray areas.”

  “I know.”

  She tucked her feet up on the sofa beside her, looking almost like a child. “You aid the less fortunate and rescue children. That is hardly a questionable activity.”

  “I’ve broken laws to do that, Ana,” he said quietly.

  “You have?”

  “‘Gray areas of right and wrong,’” he repeated. “Life is increasingly full of them.”

  She curled against his side. “You don’t condemn me, then?”

  “I, too, do some difficult things for my family. I keep up appearances in Society when I would rather be doing any number of other things. I chase down thugs in an attempt to rescue my brother. I make my living in secret, knowing my family would be embarrassed if my profession were known.”

  “You’ve told me you work for your subsistence. But you didn’t tell me what you do exactly.”

  Nervousness and anticipation clutched his heart simultaneously. “Have you read Lafayette Jones’s most recent work?”

  She sat up straight, twisting to look at him more directly. Confusion filled her beautiful brown eyes. “I have.”

  “That is my secret activity, Ana.”

  Laughter shone in her face. “Hiding students in a school for ghosts?”

  “No.” He grinned. He was so much happier with her in his life. “Writing stories about students being hidden in schools for ghosts.”

  For the length of a breath, she didn’t say anything. Then, all at once, she said, “You are Lafayette Jones.”

  “I am. Very few people know that. Gentlemen can be writers without losing their claim to station and status, but not writing what I write.”

  She nodded slowly, understanding dawning on her face. “Should your endeavors be known and your brother’s financial situation be revealed, your niece and nephew would find themselves on shaky ground.”

  “And so I keep up the pretense,” he said. “One foot in each world, never truly part of either.”

  “We are peas in a pod, you and I.”

  From the far corner, Very Merry answered. “I’d say two cats in the cream.”

  Ana practically jumped off the sofa. She turned red as a strawberry.

  Hollis leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of him. “Very Merry, come over here and explain, you little imp.”

  She hopped up from her spot hidden behind a chair. Her self-assured saunter held a hint of worry.

  “How long have you been in here?”

  She shrugged a shoulder.

  “You aren’t in trouble, popsy.” He patted the sofa beside him.

  She didn’t accept the seat he offered. “Even though I’m wise to your secrets now? And that I saw you sparkin’? And after I filched a scone from the kitchen? And—”

  “Best quit listing things while you’re still in my good graces.” He motioned beside him again.

  Very Merry accepted this time. The girl had so much gumption it was easy to forget how young she really was.

  “Why were you hiding in here?” he asked again.

  “On account of Libby an’ Ambrose telling me I ain’t s’pposed to have scones before supper. So I ate it in here.”

  Hollis bit back a grin. He didn’t want to encourage her devilment.

  Very Merry turned to look at Ana. “I ain’t gonna tell no one about you being a thief. I’m not a snitch.”

  Ana’s color went from red to pale.

  “And I already knew you was a writerly sort,” Very Merry said to him.

  “You did?”

  “Blimey, how couldn’t I? You talk to yourself when you’re in here making your stories.”

  Hollis dropped his face into his hands. “How often do you hide in this room?”

  She shrugged. “I like scones.”

  He met Ana’s eye. She pressed her lips closed, but the laugher in her eyes was unmistakable. “I told you this little heathen was a handful.”

  “I think I will leave you and your handful to sort everything out.” Ana dipped a small curtsey, then offered the same to Very Merry. “My deepest gratitude for your discretion.”

/>   “Us thieves ’ave to look after each other,” the girl said.

  Though she blushed a little, Ana accepted the show of solidarity with good humor. Hollis walked her out of the room.

  “You are very kind to her,” Ana said.

  “Because I’m afraid of her.”

  Ana bumped him with her shoulder. “Why, then, are you kind to me?”

  “Because I adore you.”

  “A penniless thief?” She didn’t hide her doubt.

  He smiled. “A brave, determined, kindhearted, clever . . . thief.” He raised her hand and kissed the back of it. “And a remarkable, caring, dedicated teacher. I hope you don’t mean to give that up.”

  She didn’t commit to any particular path but left on a note of hopeful uncertainty. Whatever her future plans, he prayed they included him.

  by Mr. King

  Installment VI,

  in which our Hero has a startling Revelation!

  The little boy, whose name they had discovered was Pip, had made his declaration about stealing the blue flame, then had cried so ceaselessly he’d not managed another word. Not knowing exactly what harm the bluecap might bring, Wellington had thought it best that Pip, Mr. Combs, and Tillie all remove to the manor house. Of all things, he wished for them to be safe.

  In return, he found greater joy in his house now than he’d known in years. He and Tillie, sometimes accompanied by Pip, made another search of the house, looking for the items the bluecap had nipped off with. Mr. Combs was of the opinion that the creature was inclined to stash his “payments” rather than spirit them off, but where that pile of treasures might be, they didn’t know.

  Pip was cheerful enough on their searches so long as neither of them brought up the topic of the bluecap. The reminder of the sprite he claimed to have stolen would turn him once more into a trembling heap. It made getting information from the child difficult, and they had no other help in finding the creature or the things it had taken.

  Four days after they’d rescued the boy from the moors, Wellington walked alongside Tillie through the back corridors of the house, having come no closer to rooting out their mischievous visitor. Pip had fallen asleep, so they’d left him in his room and undertaken this search without him.

  “I wish we could do somethin’ for the little imp,” Tillie said. “He’s terrified of the creature he stole, and I suspect he’s drowning in a sea of guilt as well.”

  “If only we could sort out how he caught it in the first place, we could rid ourselves of it.”

  “And of him?” she asked quietly, cautiously.

  “He must be from somewhere,” Wellington said. “And his family must be worried.”

  Tillie shook her head. “I don’t think he has one.”

  Wellington motioned her out through the door of the music room; they hadn’t found any missing items hidden there. “Why do you suspect that?”

  She shrugged as she passed. “Because that’s what Pip said when Papa asked him.”

  Tillie was a delight. He never laughed as much as he did when he was with her.

  “Your father took the less-interesting approach.” Wellington caught up to her. “Did he also happen to ask Pip where he came here from?”

  “Ipsley, on the other side of Iplsey Moor,” she said. “Slipped out of the workhouse, he did.”

  The workhouse. Mercy. “We can’t send him back there.”

  Without warning, Tillie threw her arms around him. “Oh, Wellington! I had so hoped you would say that. I can’t bear thinking of him in so miserable a place.”

  Something odd happened to Wellington Quincey in that moment. Something entirely unexpected. His heart, which had always been whole and entirely in his possession, gave itself over to his lifelong friend. Her arms around him felt like the warm embrace of home. He set his arms around her as well and held her, feeling his heart undertake its change of ownership.

  “Papa and I can keep Pip at our cottage if need be,” she said. “But he’d be happy as a cat in the cream here. He’d have long corridors to run through, and an entire nursery to make his own.” She looked up at him. “Oh, Wellington! Say he can stay. Please.”

  “Of course, he can. This house has been far too empty for far too long.”

  In the instant after that declaration, the house suddenly filled with voices.

  Tillie’s head turned toward the noise, but she didn’t drop her arms from around him. “Who’s doing all that bellowing?”

  He locked his hands behind her back. “I couldn’t say. I never have visitors.”

  “You did a week ago,” she said.

  “I suppose I did.”

  Tillie leaned her head against his chest. “Could they be back?”

  “I think they might be. They had said the house party they were attending would last a week.”

  She slipped back. “You should go greet ’em.”

  “You should come as well,” he said. “Then they can meet you.”

  “They already have. They didn’t like what they saw.” Quick as anything, she hurried down the corridor without looking back.

  Sometimes it seemed she was forever running from him! His heart ached for her to remain at his side.

  He entered the drawing room and discovered his group of acquaintances there, dripping wet. The weather had turned whilst he and Tillie had been searching the house.

  “Forgive the intrusion,” Alsop said. “This deluge made the roads impassable. We find ourselves in need of your hospitality.”

  “Of course.” Wellington would never turn anyone away in such circumstances. “We are short-staffed, so I cannot guarantee you the most comfortable of stays.”

  “If you can guarantee us a roof and a warm fire,” Henson said, “we will be more than satisfied.”

  Mrs. Smith saw them all to the guest wing. Mr. Smith made certain each room had a fire burning. Wellington went in search of Tillie but did not find her. Pip was still sleeping in the nursery. His home was the busiest it had been in ages, yet he felt lonely again.

  He went through the motions of being a proper host. The guests were checked on by Mrs. Smith and provided with a tray in their rooms so they could rest and warm themselves. He consulted with his housekeeper and butler about the trickiness of looking after five unexpected visitors with only the two of them on staff.

  “Tillie will help,” Mrs. Smith said. “She’s a good ’un, she is.”

  “She is a guest here as well.”

  “Not the same, though, is it?” Mrs. Smith sighed. “She’s your dear friend, yes, but the daughter of your steward. She’s not one of your fine and elegant friends. They know it. And so does she.”

  “I could go the rest of my life without seeing any of today’s arrivals again, and I would not be the worse for it,” Wellington said. “But these past days, having Tillie’s company so often, I know I could not say the same about her.”

  “She’s not your equal,” Mrs. Smith reminded him.

  “No. She is a better person than I.”

  Mrs. Smith handed her husband the stacked linens he would be delivering to the guest rooms. “You and I know her worth, but Society wouldn’t agree with us.”

  “We aren’t in London. Those things don’t matter much in the wilds of Yorkshire.”

  Mr. Smith watched Wellington with narrowed gaze. “You’ve lost your heart to the girl, haven’t you?”

  “She’s been my friend all my life,” he said. “But she’s more than that to me now. She’s everything.”

  “Not everyone’ll see things the way you do,” Mrs. Smith warned. “She’d not be welcomed with open arms in Town or at Society dos.”

  “I’ve never put a great deal of store by such things.” A smile blossomed on his solemn face. “I would rather spend the rest of my life running around the moors with her than bowing and scraping my wa
y through all the ballrooms in London.”

  “Then might I offer you a word of advice?” Mr. Smith asked.

  Wellington nodded. He hadn’t a father any longer to help point him in the right direction. He welcomed whatever wisdom was offered him.

  “Make certain she knows that.”

  Wellington awoke to the sound of shouting. He’d slept later than expected, having been up longer than he’d wished. Preparations for breakfast for so many additional people in the house had required all their efforts. Tillie had undertaken hers from a distance, volunteering for every chore that would take her away from the visitors at the manor house.

  He hadn’t the opportunity to tell her of his feelings, and it seemed there would not be peace enough this morning for doing so any time soon.

  All his guests were in an uproar, standing outside Miss Fairbanks’s assigned bedchamber. The lady, herself, was flailing her arms, her words frantic. Tillie appeared on the scene a moment later, watching the group with the same expression of confusion he must have been wearing.

  Miss Porter suddenly pointed an accusing finger at Tillie. “She took it. I know she did!”

  Though Tillie paled, she didn’t flinch. “I have a name, and you clearly have an accusation. See if you can’t spit out both.”

  Wellington bit back a laugh. His light o’ love was no shrinking violet. Still, fisticuffs erupting in the corridor hardly seemed advisable. “Miss Porter, what has been taken? Whatever it might be, I doubt Miss Combs was involved in its disappearance.”

  “We tried to warn you,” Alsop said. “You’re being robbed left and right, and you refuse to see the likely reason.”

  “I know the reason,” he said firmly. “And Miss Combs is not part of it.”

  “You do not—” Alsop managed no more words as Wellington interrupted him.

  “I have offered you my hospitality. I should hope you won’t repay that by insulting my most honored guest, nor by casting aspersions on my judgment.”

  That brought the chaos to a swift end. Wellington took advantage of the silence.

  “Miss Fairbanks, what has gone missing?”