Her branch tonight was the roof of Thomas & Sons on Canterbury Lane. Her older brother, Stephen, was beside her, lying on his back and smoking a cheroot, the smell of which reminded Rosalyn of her father’s pipe. Stephen was more of a raven than a cat. He had sharp eyes and could pick a lock as though he’d been born to it. With his light brown eyes and dark black hair, he perched in shadows and moved through alleys so quickly it seemed he flew.
Daniel, on the other hand, could neither slink nor fly. He was a year younger than Rosalyn, and the two were often mistaken for twins. They both had dark hair, like Stephen, but their eyes were green, not brown. Rosalyn was shorter than Daniel, but Daniel was shorter than Stephen. Daniel and Rosalyn were both thin and wraithlike. Rosalyn used her small body to advantage, slipping into spaces most adults could not manage and hanging on pipes or clotheslines that would have bent or broken if someone with more weight had relied on them.
But for all the grace she had been given, Daniel had only awkwardness. He was gangly and clumsy, forever knocking over small tables and breaking Mama’s few remaining china plates. For this reason, Daniel served as lookout, loitering below the shop, ready to signal when the shop owners had finished locking up for the night or if the watch happened by.
“It shouldn’t be long now,” Stephen said, blowing smoke into a sky already gray from coal fires.
“Not long,” she agreed, peering over the edge of the building to keep her eye on Daniel. He slouched against a shop across the street, hands in his pockets, looking half asleep. But she caught the glint of his green eyes under the brim of his hat. He was alert and ready.
“You know what you’re after?”
She glanced at Stephen, annoyed to find his dark eyes fixed on her.
“If you mean, do I remember how all of you voted against me, the answer is yes. I lost. No jeweled cameo. Instead, I’m to swipe a simple silver chain.” Even she could hear the bitterness in her voice.
“We can sell the chain easily. Any of the popshops will take it. They can turn around and sell it again the next day. Who do we know that will have the blunt or the customers to pay for a jeweled cameo?”
Rosalyn had heard this tedious argument before. Stephen was probably just as tired of her response. “Then we find a buyer for the cameo. Or, forget the cameo. When I cased the shop last week, I saw rings and brooches. I could swipe one of those. We find the right buyer, and we’re done thieving for a year or more.”
Stephen raised a brow at her. “And here I thought you liked thieving.”
She did like it. “That’s not the point. Mama does not approve, and she’s probably right. No matter how good we are, eventually we will be caught.”
“You mean Danny or I will be caught. It would take another cat to catch you, Ros.” He tousled her hair, which she’d pulled back into a long tail and tucked under her coat. She wore men’s clothing because it was easier to move in. She’d often thought she should chop her hair off so she would not have to worry about it getting in the way or spoiling her disguise, but her hair was the only womanly thing about her. She was otherwise as thin and straight as a boy.
“I don’t like to worry about you and Danny, but I also miss having some security. Having a little money would buy us security.”
“And taking something that valuable would hurt the shop owners. They’ll hardly miss a silver chain, but a ring worth thirty pounds might mean they go out of business. I hardly want to get rich by stepping on the backs of others trying to earn an honest living.”
Rosalyn sighed. How could she argue with that? She had always been inclined to take the every-man-for-himself view. But she had gone in the shop, and the older gentleman who had offered assistance had been very kind. She didn’t want to see him unable to pay his rent or feed his family.
“Fine.” She peered over the roof again and then ducked back just as quickly. Danny was consulting his London guidebook, which was her signal that the owners were about to depart. “He has the guidebook,” she whispered to Stephen.
Stephen stubbed out the cheroot and rolled onto his belly. Both of them listened intently to the street noise below. Gradually, she heard the jingle of bells as the door to the shop opened. The passing carriages and general hum of the hive that was London kept her from hearing the actual clicks of the keys in the locks, but she could imagine the sound. Then, after at least ten minutes had passed, she rose up on her elbows and peered over the roof again.
Daniel had put his guidebook away and was setting his pocket watch. She and Stephen knew the watch did not actually work, but it was a convenient signal.
The shop owners had departed.
“Still too light,” Stephen said.
“I hate these long summer days,” she replied. She’d loved them when she’d been young and carefree in the country. She’d been able to go for long walks after dinner down to the pond or the stables. But now that life had ended, long summer days meant waiting for the sun to creep low enough that she could melt into the shadows. And so much for dinner. Her mother would have some broth waiting for them when they returned. Perhaps bread as well. But it would barely quell the rumbling in her belly. And if she was hungry, she could only imagine how much worse it must be for Stephen, who was bigger and taller than she.
But the sacrifice was worth it for Michael. Sweet little Michael, who had been so ill and whose medicines and tonics and doctor’s calls were so very expensive. Michael was fourteen now, but he looked much closer to the age of nine. He was so small and so pale. Rosalyn would have given her brother all of her dinner if it would have made any difference.
But nothing seemed to help. She did not like to admit it, but her brother was growing worse, not better. Rosalyn did not like to imagine life without Michael.
“Ros, it’s time.”
Shaken out of her dour thoughts by Stephen’s voice, Rosalyn peered over the edge of the building and looked down. Indeed, the streets were gray and shadowed. She could barely discern the glow of Danny’s cheroot.
She looked at Stephen. “Pull out the rope.”
Chapter Two
‡
“Tell me about The Temples,” Dominick said, leaning over the hot cup of tea he did not want. Rummage had added cream and sugar to his, and Dominick judged he’d waited long enough for the information he wanted.
“I have never been myself, Your Grace,” Rummage said, “but to hear the professor tell it, the place is more like a fortress than a home. It was a medieval keep at one time and had been heavily fortified at one time. It is located on the coast of Cornwall, high on the cliffs. It sounded a dark and treacherous place.”
“Is it abandoned?”
“No. The professor went to The Temples and was refused entrance by the servants. It is said a mad earl lives there.”
“Which earl?” Dominick knew his Debrett’s, and he could think of no earl associated with a family estate called The Temples.
“Let me think. This conversation was at least a decade ago, perhaps more.” Rummage sipped his tea, and Dominick refrained from tapping his fingers on the table.
“Ah, I have it. Verney. The Earl of Verney.”
“Any idea how old this mad earl might be?” After all, if the professor had traveled to meet him a decade before, mightn’t the earl be dead by now? Perhaps his much saner son held the property now, and if he needed blunt—and what noble with a crumbling cliffside structure did not need money?—might he be persuaded to sell the volume to Dominick?
“I couldn’t say, Your Grace. Shall I consult Debrett’s for you?”
“I can do it.” Dominick rose to fetch the book, which was located near the door. “Tell me more about what you know of the professor’s visit.”
“He was turned away by the staff, and he always intended to go back. But he rather doubted the volume was located at The Temples, so he preferred to search elsewhere first. But I think he knew if the manuscript was lodged at The Temples, it was lost forever.”
Dominick looked up
from the page where he scanned the names of the peerage. “Why is that?”
“Not only was the earl mad and unreasonable, the structure itself was all but impregnable.” Now Rummage lowered his voice. “I don’t think it would surprise you, Your Grace, if I said the professor was not above actions some might consider rather shady to achieve his aims.”
This did not surprise Dominick in the least.
“The professor said that one would have to be a monkey or a cat to scale the walls of that keep, and a surefooted cat at that, what with the wind buffeting you.”
“Hmm.” Dominick supposed he would have to do what he always did—order his way in. He was a duke. He outranked an earl. But using his power didn’t always have the best results. He might have used charm—if he’d had any. But what if…his finger slid over the entry for Verney. He frowned. Unless the earl had died in the last year or so, he was very much alive and very much ensconced, a recluse it seemed, in The Temples.
And that meant the volume was very much out of Dominick’s reach.
*
Rosalyn lowered herself over the side of the building and took a moment to find purchase for her feet. She wore thin gloves that kept her hands warm but allowed them the freedom of movement. She’d changed from her boots into the sort of slippers a dancer or a tightrope walker might wear. These gave her toes a better grip.
She’d removed her coat and descended slowly in shirt-sleeves and trousers. Her fingers gripped the fine but sturdy rope Stephen had dropped down. Since they couldn’t risk him standing on the street picking the lock of Thomas & Sons, she would descend to the window and enter on the shop’s first floor. The family’s residence was elsewhere, and though she did not know what the first floor might house, she knew from her observations that no one slept on the premises.
The rope was secured about her waist, but Rosalyn wrapped a length of it loosely around her hand and used it to begin her descent. She kept close to the brick of the building, staying small and tight lest anyone happen to look up or out from one of the other windows. She was dressed in all black, which helped her to blend in. Above her, she could hear Stephen huffing. Now that night had fallen, the heat had begun to dissipate, but it was still hot and strenuous work to support all seven or eight stone of her over the side of a building.
She lowered herself carefully, picking her way delicately across the landscape of the bricks until she found the safest. Finally, she reached the lone window on this side of the upper story. She inched down until she was even with the sill, then positioned herself on the narrow ledge, sideways so her shoulder and thigh pressed against the glass. Now she released the rope she held in her hands, but should she fall, she had the protection of the knot at her waist.
Not that she would fall. She never fell.
Still, she hoped Stephen hadn’t become complacent. If he wasn’t gripping the rope, this could be the one night she tumbled to the hard ground below.
Rosalyn took her time to catch her breath, listening for Danny’s whistle. The whistle was the sign everything was clear. When she heard it, she took a deep breath and attempted to slide the window open.
It didn’t budge.
She hadn’t expected it to open easily, but there was no reason not to try. It was too dark for her to see whether the window was secured by some sort of lock, but given that it wasn’t the ground floor, she doubted it. No reason to lock a window on the first floor, especially when one might wish to open it and allow air to circulate. But it was still early in the summer, and perhaps no one had needed to open it since last fall. The painted wood might be stuck to the casement at the sill.
She reached into her boot and unsheathed her knife. It had a long, thick blade. She had never used it as a weapon, but it was wonderful for prying open recalcitrant doors or windows. If her blade didn’t work, she’d have to break the glass. But given that the glass was thick, breaking it was her last option.
Adjusting her position so she didn’t slip backward, Rosalyn slid the blade between the sill and the window casement. The fit was tight, and it took some wriggling to wedge the blade all the way in. Keeping her balance under such conditions was a fine art of knowing just how to shift one’s weight and when. Rosalyn gritted her teeth and pressed the blade up, trying to free the casement from the sill. This too was a tricky endeavor, because she did not want to break the blade. Finally, she felt the wood of the casement give, and she twisted the knife vertically, forcing space between the two pieces of wood.
She withdrew the knife and stuck it back in her boot, then tucked her small fingers into the space she’d created. It was a beastly tight fit, but she managed it, then pushed up with all her strength.
With a creak, the window lifted. She didn’t need much space, and as soon as she had it, she slipped one leg inside, then the other. When she was standing inside the dark chamber, she grasped her knife again and cut the rope from her waist. There was no point in attempting to untie it. It would be knotted too tightly. She tugged on it twice to let Stephen know she was free of it, then left it dangling inside the half-open window. She’d need it on the way out.
Rosalyn surveyed the room she stood in. It was an open chamber, running the entire length of the small shop below. A table with chairs sat near the other window, which would receive the morning light. On the table were small instruments that she did not know the names of but that she associated with jewelry making. This was obviously the place where the family repaired broken jewelry as well as made the jewelry patrons requested.
There was also a large safe in the far corner, and it was closed and locked. This might have been a short night if someone had left a silver or gold chain lying out. But thieving had never been so convenient for her. She’d have to make her way downstairs and find a suitable piece. She had an idea of the one she wanted—not too showy but a good piece nonetheless.
She wove past a chest of drawers and a desk and padded silently over the carpet until she reached the steps. They had been designed in an L-shape, which meant she would go down about half a dozen, then have to turn on the landing and finish her descent. There was something about the landing she didn’t care for, though. It was too…light. Had someone left a lamp burning? Was that where the light filtering up from the ground floor to the landing originated?
If the steps had been straight down, she would have been able to see what she was moving toward, but as it was, she was blind.
Daniel had definitely signaled that the shop owners had departed and locked the door. No one was here, so the light must have been a forgotten candle or lamp. Still, Rosalyn paused and waited for a long moment, listening. She heard nothing but the thud of horses’ hooves a street over and a hawker attempting to sell pies.
She put her foot on the first step and slowly lowered her weight onto it. Then she did the same with the other. Her progress was slow, but she could not be too careful. Now was the time when she really must prowl. She’d descended four of the six steps to the landing and was just placing her foot on the fifth when she heard a slight cough. The sound startled her, and she would have pulled her foot up, but it was too late. Her body’s momentum was forward, and she ended up lowering her foot harder than she would have liked.
The step creaked. Loudly.
“Who’s there?” a man’s voice called.
Rosalyn froze.
*
Dominick looked up from the notes he’d taken of his conversation with Rummage and frowned. His carriage was not moving. How long had they been sitting still? He’d been reading by the light of the carriage lamps and hadn’t really taken note when they’d stopped. He’d been so engrossed that they might have been sitting here for an age. Dominick parted the curtains, saw very little in the darkness outside, and rapped on the roof with his walking stick.
John Coachman opened the hatch. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Why are we stopped?”
“Terribly sorry, Your Grace. There’s a line of carriages on the way to Covent Garden.”
/>
Some play or other was doubtless debuting, and the ton wanted to be present. Not to watch the performance, but to be seen in attendance. Ridiculous. When Dominick attended a play, he went to see the play, not ogle the audience with opera glasses. “I am not attending the performance,” he said.
“No, Your Grace,” the coachman agreed.
“Then move us out of the line of conveyances.”
“I would, Your Grace, but it would mean taking a more roundabout route home.”
“I don’t care. Just get us moving again.” Dominick used the handle of his walking stick to slam the hatch closed. The carriage began, slowly, to move again, and Dominick tried to go back to his reading, but his focus had been interrupted. Instead, he parted the curtains and peered out.
There wasn’t much to see—the usual carts full of coal or firewood, a flower girl attempting to sell her last few wilting daisies, and a few couples making their way, on foot, toward Covent Garden. None of which shed any light on his current dilemma. How the devil was he to gain access to the library in The Temples? If the mad earl was as much a recluse as everyone seemed to think, Dominick might push his way in, but how would he be able to confront the earl and persuade him to relinquish the manuscript? He certainly couldn’t scale the crumbling walls and climb inside the earl’s chamber. Rummage had laughed about needing a cat. Where was Dominick to find a cat?
Just then, something large and heavy thudded on the roof of his carriage. John Coachman called to the horses to stop, and Dominick stuck his head out. The sight that greeted him shocked him.
Then it made him smile.
*
“Who’s there?” called the voice again.
Rosalyn pushed down a surge of panic. Someone was here! A man, by the sound of the voice, was still in the shop, and he’d heard her. Even now, he was listening for her to move again.
How to Find a Duke in Ten Days Page 13
