by Jenny Hambly
“I am of course honoured to think you can fit me into your busy schedule, Belle,” he assured her, “but if you have come to inform me of the latest lady of excellent virtue and pleasing demeanour that has taken your fancy, don’t. I find it a dead bore I assure you.”
“Oh, you seem to find everything a dead bore at the moment,” she pouted, but the grey eyes that almost exactly matched her brother’s twinkled mischievously from beneath the softly upturned brim of her black poke bonnet. “Well, this might pique your interest, I happened to bump into my dear friend Miss Mowbray in Hatchards,” she informed him, untying the lavender ribbons which, mourning or not, were knotted coquettishly beneath her right ear.
“Belle,” Lord Atherton rapped out.
“Stop being such a crosspatch,” the offended lady clucked. “She is not nearly beautiful enough for you so is, of course, not to be considered. You really don’t deserve that I share the latest on-dit with you, you know.”
“I believe I can stand the suspense,” he drawled. The genuine hurt that momentarily darkened Lady Haywood’s expressive eyes swiftly brought remorse. He reached for her hand and gently squeezed it. “Forgive me, love, I am not quite myself at present.”
The little hand turned beneath his and returned the clasp. “You are feeling it dreadfully, I know,” she murmured. “I never realised there was such a strong bond of feeling between you and Papa. It seemed to me you were always wrangling about something or other.”
The grim, set look about his mouth silenced her but only for a moment. “Well, never mind. The thing is, Miss Mowbray’s maid’s brother works as a groom for Lord Rutley you know, and she had it from him that the Rutley emeralds are the latest heirlooms to be stolen.”
She smiled as she realised she finally had his full attention.
“When was this?” he asked, surprised. “I have seen no notice in the papers.”
“Well you wouldn’t,” she rushed on in hushed tones as if discussing state secrets. “It only happened last night.”
Lord Atherton let out a low whistle. He didn’t question the accuracy of the statement, the servants always knew everything before everyone else after all. Poor Rutley might have to follow Brummel across the Channel if he didn’t snare his heiress soon. A slight twinge of guilt disturbed him as he recalled the quite large sum of money he had relieved him of the night before. The irony of it was he had no great love of gambling above the ordinary, it was only this persistent restlessness that seemed to have seized him recently that had sent him out at all.
The entrance of the butler with another cup and a fresh pot of tea might have been expected to have ceased his sister’s penchant for gossip for a moment but her brother was not at all surprised when it did not.
“Have you heard anything of the latest theft, Radcliffe?” she asked audaciously.
Although the allusion that he might take the smallest notice of gossip would have earned any of the lesser beings below stairs a sharp set down, he had always had a soft corner for Lady Hayward and so condescended to reply.
“I believe Lord Rutley is the latest gentleman to have been stripped of some of his most valuable assets,” he replied with dignity. As Lady Hayward did not look quite satisfied he offered her another titbit. “Apparently a calling card bearing the inscription, ‘For I will be merciful to their unrighteousness, and their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more,’ was left behind.” He paused a moment to let this sink in. “Hebrews, chapter eight, verse twelve if I am not much mistaken.”
Satisfied by the rapt expression on Lady Hayward’s face and aware of the warning one on his harassed employer’s, he judged it time to bow and withdraw.
Overcoming her momentary astonishment she blurted out, “Well really, George, I don’t know how it could be called merciful to thieve from someone, although I am not at all shocked to discover Rutley is guilty of some iniquity, he always makes me shiver with those cold eyes of his, he reminds me of a deadly snake.”
Lord Atherton looked unimpressed by this outburst. “My dear sister, you have discovered nothing but what some common thief has claimed and I would ask you not to go about spreading any tales.”
That fair lady pouted sulkily at such a suggestion and got impatiently to her dainty feet. “As you seem so set on being disagreeable I will take my leave of you,” she declared with frigid dignity, but immediately spoiled the illusion by rushing on, “I think it vastly amusing that such a felon should scatter bible allusions behind him and I doubt very much that it could be any common thief or that the victims are chosen at random. And I find it very hard to believe you are not as interested as the rest of society to discover the mystery behind it all.”
“Believe it,” he sighed. “I blame the lending libraries, you must all turn everything into a romance.”
Lady Hayward didn’t deign to reply, too busy in front of his handsome mirror, retying the ribbons on her dashing hat over her golden curls.
“Belle,” he said rather more gently, “as you’re not attending parties at the moment I was going to suggest you post up to Atherton to bear Mother company, she should not be so much alone at such a time.”
His sister’s incredulous gaze spoke volumes as to her opinion of this suggestion. “Leave town now, when I have barely been back a fortnight? Really, George, I must not neglect poor Hayward so,” she asserted firmly.
The earl’s lips quirked at the image of staid, sensible Lord Hayward pining for his energetic, flighty bride. Although he undoubtedly doted on her, he would more likely be relieved not to have to drag her out of some scrape or other. Rising, he took her hand and kissed her cheek. “Lay your bristles, Belle, I would not wish to have Hayward’s decline laid at my doorstep. I will probably go myself.”
This revelation earned him a swift, warm hug. “I am so pleased, your visit will cheer poor Mama up more than mine ever could.”
After handing his sister up into her barouche, Lord Atherton climbed the steps to his noble mansion slowly. Loath though he was to own it, Belle had given him plenty of food for thought. Her suggestions about the nature of the thefts were disturbingly likely but as he could think of no one he had particularly sinned against, which seemed to be the general gist of the calling cards, he was not unduly worried. Belle’s assertion that his mother would be happier to see him concerned him more nearly, he was only too well aware that he had neglected her shamefully and was grateful that Belle had not thrown that accusation in his face, for he would have deserved it.
He did not venture out that evening, but instead sat in his darkened study into the early hours with only a bottle of particularly fine Chambertin for company. The servants had long since gone to bed and the quiet of the house contrasted sharply with the unquiet of his mind as his last argument with his father kept running relentlessly through his head. As was so often the case it had blown up over something quite trivial, in this case, a horse he had wanted to purchase. His father’s gout had been particularly bad and he had refused to countenance the idea. “You’re nothing but an expensive wastrel,” he had ranted. His undutiful son had been foolish enough to remind him of the rather large loan he had recently given to one of his old cronies who was far more of a wastrel than he could ever hope to be and the argument had escalated rapidly, harsh words being bandied on both sides. “Until you spend more time here learning about the estates you will one day inherit, you good for nothing gadabout, you’ll get nothing more out of me. I’ve not had notice to quit yet and by gad I’ll whip you into shape before I do!”
However, this hope had been destined to fail; his errant heir had made all haste back to town and within a week his irascible parent was dead. The suspicion that he had caused the fatal heart attack refused to leave him, but the guilt that accompanied it had not filled him with a desire to prove his father wrong, he had instead thrown himself into a life of the sort of dissipation his father had not completely unjustly accused him of.
A strange scraping sound coming from the window at t
he rear of the room that faced onto the small courtyard at the back of the house, recalled him from his unpleasant memories. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered softly, at the same time gently opening one of the drawers of his desk and removing a small silver pistol. A sudden rush of cooler air into the room informed him that his visitor had gained entry and his eyes already accustomed to the darkness, picked up a shadow darker than all the rest moving silently and stealthily towards the desk. He waited patiently until it was almost upon him before pushing himself out of his chair and grabbing the dark armful roughly around the middle, clamping the thief’s arms to his sides in case he carried any weapon. He had braced himself to take a potentially heavy weight and was so unprepared for such a slim, slight form, he unintentionally lifted them right off their feet. Feet that were soon busily pummelling his shins as their owner wriggled like a desperate eel determined to make an escape. Realising he could hold the form encircled within one arm, he raised the hand with the pistol and pushed its cold, hard barrel against the side of their head.
“Be still or I’ll shoot,” he snapped out.
Immediately the figure became statue-like in his arms and as he lowered them to the floor he made an interesting discovery. The hood of his assailant’s long black cloak had fallen back in the struggle and unless he was much mistaken, long tresses of silken hair were now covering the hand that still clamped the silent form to him. His nostrils twitched as he recognised the faint scent of jasmine. He turned them both and pushed his mute thief into the chair he had just vacated. “Don’t move,” he said curtly, moving swiftly to light the candle that had been left to light his way to bed. He then perched on the edge of his desk in stunned surprise as he took in the vision before him, starting with the long, long slim legs that were encased in close-fitting breeches; the rest of the slight figure was obscured by the cloak and a dark coat beneath. As he watched, the still silent intruder reached up to release the remainder of the hair that had already mostly escaped its knot. It fell in a glossy, wavy sheen almost to her waist and framed an almost preternaturally pale face. She now unhurriedly removed her loo mask and revealed eyes of the lightest amber, the enlarged black pupils the only sign of any nervousness. My God, she had the eyes of a tiger, and despite himself, Lord Atherton felt a flicker of amusement not untainted with admiration as he realised they were observing him just as closely with a cool, speculative interest.
A scuffling sound followed by a muffled grunt outside the window broke the silent spell that had held both occupants in the room momentarily immobile.
He quirked an enquiring eyebrow at his caged tigress. “A friend of yours?”
She gave a brief shake of her head.
“Damn,” muttered Lord Atherton. “Get under the desk quickly. If you try to escape I will not hesitate to stop you.” Not pausing to see if his concise instructions were followed or to consider why he was protecting a thief who was clearly a menace to society, he strode swiftly to the window, thrusting it up far enough to enable him to lean out of it.
“Who goes there?” he snapped imperatively.
“Lord bless you, gov‘ner, danged if someone ain’t trying to slum your ken, er, what I mean is, if you ain’t being robbed, sir,” came an earnest voice as a thickset form in a thick frieze coat picked himself up from the cobbles beneath the window. “I seen him come up the mews and in past the stables with me own oglers. Then I spied a dark figure disappearin’ through that very window, strike me down if I didn’t. Best let me in, sir, I’ll know how to deal with the thieving varmint.”
“You are mistaken, my good man. Whilst I am reassured by the presence of a Bow Street Runner in the vicinity, in the light of recent alarming events, I am very much afraid to inform you, that whilst I approve of your diligence, you have in this case made a mistake.”
As the earl started to withdraw back into the room, the startled runner rubbed his rather bulbous nose and protested vehemently, “But I saw something disappearin’ through that window. It must be that pesky thief, I’ve been set on to watch out for him see.”
Lord Atherton sighed with every appearance of boredom and sublime unconcern. “Yes I see, and although I hesitate to further blight your hopes, as I myself have not left this room tonight it is quite impossible that I would be unaware if someone had entered it,” he answered truthfully. “What you saw was possibly my cat, that disgraceful feline did indeed grace me with her presence not very many minutes since,” he embellished, finding a store of hitherto unsuspected creativity.
A look of chagrin and doubt descended on the runner’s face. “Are you sure you don’t want me to cast me ogles over your ken, sir? I could ‘ave swore I seen someone.”
“No, it is quite unnecessary. Good night to you and good hunting.” With that, he snapped the window shut, drew the rich velvet curtains and bent to retrieve a small object from the floor.
Chapter 3
Rosalind folded herself neatly into the cramped space underneath the desk and listened with bated breath to this conversation. She was well aware that the mention of the Bow Street Runners was both a warning and a threat. One part of her wanted to make a run for it, but a curious fatalistic feeling had crept over her. It had been foolish to attempt the final theft so close to the last one. For weeks, the plotting of her limited revenge and the carrying out of her audacious plan had consumed her, had been the only thing that had given her life any direction at all. She had repeatedly ignored Lucy and Ned’s warnings, too hard headed and desperately needing to take some sort of action before she faced her bleak future. But she had been gripped by a seething madness, she had realised it finally, almost certainly too late.
When she had been struggling in those strong arms and then laid herself open to the amazed scrutiny of her captor, she had realised that the only person she had really succeeded in punishing was herself. Her father might have already brought their name into disrepute but she, she had put the crowning glory on it through her own actions. She went cold as all the ramifications of the Bow Street Runner caught up with her; to be dragged to a round-house, then a magistrate or court, for her identity to be revealed and her conduct judged under the meticulous, unforgiving microscope of the ton, would be unbearable. Even if they had condemned her father, his actions though shameful were hardly unusual, whilst for a female of gentle birth and upbringing to act as she had was unheard of, disgraceful and completely unforgivable.
“You can come out now.” The voice was velvet laced with steel, it jerked her out of her reverie.
As she uncurled herself the room was flooded with a soft light as the man she had so recently struggled with, lit a candelabra above the fireplace. Next to it were ranged two comfortable looking, wing-backed leather chairs. A brief nod directed her to one of them. She perched uncertainly on the edge of the one indicated and watched in bemused amazement as her ‘host’ poured a dark red liquid into two glasses; he handed her one before arranging himself comfortably in the other chair, leaning deep back into it and crossing his hessian-clad ankles.
He raised the glass and sipped unhurriedly as he considered her thoughtfully over the rim.
“I have undoubtedly been behaving in both a reckless and almost certainly foolish manner recently,” he finally murmured softly, as if speaking to himself, “but this tops it all. I should, of course, have handed you over to the authorities, I may still do so.” He took another thoughtful sip of his wine. “But I admit you have enlivened an otherwise tedious night, for that at least I am grateful.”
Rosalind’s eyes widened as she watched him put down his wine glass on the elegant rosewood table beside him and slowly begin to read a small rectangular card, her calling card. He read it aloud in a deep hard voice. “I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.”
He let the words hang heavily between them for a moment. “I am, I admit, more than a little intrigued to discover what alleged sin I have committed against you, someone I am very sure I have never seen before this unexpectedly ev
entful evening.”
As she continued to sit as if carved from stone, her alabaster face expressionless and her gaze fixed firmly on the floor, he added conversationally, “Who are you by the way?”
Rosalind slowly raised eyes that held a strange mix of regret and resolution. “Lady Rosalind Marlowe,” she said in her low musical voice. “And you have committed no sin against me, sir, I...” she paused, taking an unladylike gulp of her wine, “I thought this the house of the Earl of Atherton.”
She thought she saw a look of shocked surprise disturb the languid composure of the handsome face before her but she may have been mistaken as a moment later his eyes were shuttered and he offered only a brief nod in her direction.
“It is. I am Atherton.”
It was her turn to look shocked. “But, but I thought he, you, would be a much older man.”
Lord Atherton quirked one dark eyebrow. “My father died over two months ago, is it possible that you knew him?”
Rosalind gulped. “No, not knew him, but of him.” She felt as if a hard fist had clamped around her heart and suddenly found it hard to breathe. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise, I...” The room had started to spin and she could say no more.
Lord Atherton moved with swift speed and grace to remove the wineglass from her nerveless fingers before it fell to the floor. He held it to her bloodless lips and encouraged her to take a sip then gently pushed her further back into the chair.
“If you think this show of female weakness will make me feel sorry for you, you are mistaken.” His harsh voice flicked over her like a whip and brought her head back up with a snap. Her eyes flashed fire and she felt the dizziness recede and a familiar anger fill her veins. He might be innocent of his father’s sins but she would be surprised indeed if he differed from him or any other gentleman of fashion in any great measure.
“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, I don’t want anything from you, there is very little you or any of your kind can do to me anymore,” she almost spat at him.
