by Eva Devon
“No.” Of this Toby was certain—he would not abscond like the biblical thief in the night. He had worked too hard to earn his good name, his parole, and his comfortable, calm life to give them all up now.
The girl sighed with the melodramatic fervor of young women who want to appear older than they are. “Always wanted to go to the continent meself. Ye should take me with ye. I can keep house right good, and I know how to keep my gob shut good and tight.” She smiled at him. “And I can fence yer stolen bits and baubles with no one any little bit the wiser.”
Toby faltered at the oars—why on earth would a girl of no more than five and ten know how to peddle jewels to a fence? Unless Grindle, or the men at the warehouse, like her father, were doing something other than supplying the taverns, inns and coffee houses of London with drink at market rates?
It was something to think about. But so too, was the more pressing problem of his current situation. “I have nothing to fence—because it isn’t me.”
She scoffed. “O’ course it is. ’Oo else could it be?”
“Is that really what you and the rest of them think? That I would betray you all for a few bob?” It offended his scruples to find that with friends like the Bolters, he had a ready-made set of enemies.
“O’ course.” Young Betty cared nothing for his scruples. “But I’m not angry at ye like them, even if ye live out there in the country in the lap o’ luxury while we all work like navvys for our crust of bread.”
“Your father should talk to Grindle if he works him too hard, not to me.” But Toby also felt compelled to make another point. “And I do not live in the lap of luxury—I work, too. I farm.”
“Sell me another one, darlin,’” she drawled. “Yer never a farmer—yer a gentleman wot owns a farm, is wot you are, living out there in Islewerff with all the baronesses and earls.”
“There are no baronesses and earls at my farm,” he assured her. “And I’ve earned my peace honestly—I paid my debt to society.”
“Yeah, big hero in all the broadsheets. Must be nice.”
It had been nice. It had been lovely and peaceful and rewarding. Until someone started imitating his former technique, and leaving him to take the blame.
He had no scruple in abandoning Betty at Three Cranes wharf, where Vintner’s Hall was located. Toby used this wharf fairly often, as it gave him close access to the financial heart of the City, where he hoped to find that which he yet lacked—information.
He slipped through the Vintner’s elaborately wrought iron gates, and headed north up College Hill toward Cheapside, and the Royal Exchange.
Toby liked the narrow hodgepodge of honest streets of the old city, with their names that meant exactly what they did—Poultry Lane, Cloak Lane, Cowgate Hill. No grand pretension here, though hidden behind the modest brick walls might be an ancient abode just as replete with porcelain, plate and gemstones as any Mayfair mansion-come-lately, but without the crass desire to show off that characterized the newer West End. Which was why he had never, even at the height of his powers, stolen from the richer denizens of the ancient City—he had too much respect for the honest labor that had gone into building the businesses and enterprises that dwelt there.
Toby walked purposefully into the chilly shaded courtyard of the Royal Exchange where syndicates of investors gathered to insure such different commercial enterprises as maritime trade and personal property. And where the Honorable Arthur Balfour, third and final son of Viscount Balfour, kept offices in the Society of Lloyds.
Like all the best things in Toby’s life, the navy was responsible for this acquaintance—his superior officer and eventual commander, Captain Sir Hugh McAlden, had seen Toby working relentlessly to better himself, and had done all he could to assist Toby’s rise. Even after he had been invalided out of the navy, it had been the captain who had introduced Toby to his step-brother, Arthur Balfour, who was now Toby’s man of business, and the reason he could afford a farming estate in bucolic Isleworth instead of toting casks in Grindle’s warehouse.
Toby applied to the porter to have a note sent up—and just in case the law was about, his note asked the young gentleman to meet him at a discreet coffee house near Exchange Alley where he knew the lay of the land—a good thief always knew three ways in and five ways out of any room.
In a very few minutes, the young gentleman appeared in the coffee house. “Mr. McT—”
“If you please.” Toby held up his hands to keep Balfour from publicly divulging his identity. “I won’t waste your time, Mr. Balfour—I am in a pickle not of my own brining, and I require assistance to see my way out of the barrel.”
“The press—”
“Yes, the press. The broadsheets are in the business of selling stories, not in making sure such stories are necessarily reflective of the truth.”
“But the magistrates—”
“The magistrates find me the most expedient answer to a vexing question—the fact that I am not the correct answer is both inconvenient and immaterial to them.”
“I must say, I am relieved to hear it. Not that I believed the stories,” Balfour hastened to add. “But my opinion is not the one that matters.”
“To me it does.” It was a balm to Toby’s battered and abused scruples to know at least one person didn’t think the worst of him.
“Thank you. Now how can I be of any assistance?”
“By helping me to stop this thief who is impersonating me—therefore helping the Society of Lloyd’s by preventing any further loss of property of the gemstone and jewel variety.”
“How can I help you do that?”
“As I am no longer in the business of knowing who has jewels worth stealing, I require two things—the first is information.”
Balfour visibly paled. “You want me to entrust to you the names of our clients—”
“Not their names—just their addresses, and their basic worth, and the general description of their jewels, so I can judge for myself.” Toby smiled to mitigate his gall. “If you don’t mind.”
“Good Lord.”
Toby didn’t know if it was the baldness of his request, or his brass in asking for it in the first place that struck young Balfour so. But he didn’t have time to flatter or massage the information out of the man—his cravat felt enough like a noose as it was.
“We have a common interest, Mr. Balfour—you and I both want to see these robberies ended. We need to work together or we will both surely lose—you will lose business and money. But I, Mr. Balfour, will lose my life.”
“When you put it that way…” the young man hedged. “But you are, if you don’t mind my saying so, what we would call a bad risk.”
“So I am.” Toby accepted the fact calmly. “But I’m a safer risk that doing nothing.”
“Perhaps,” Balfour hedged.
“And if I am able to find the real thief sooner, rather than later, there is a greater chance that I can recover some of the stolen jewels.” It was, in actuality, a rather slim chance—a good professional thief would have, to use young Betty’s words, ‘fenced them with no one the wiser.’ But Toby would use every last bit of leverage he could pry into the Honorable Mr. Balfour. “And you’ll get the all credit.”
“Well yes, I suppose that would be nice—rather a boon to one’s prospects.”
“Indeed. So think about putting your hands on that information I need.” Because Toby already had other things to think about—a constable was peering through the window at the front of the coffee house. And behind him, damn her sneaky eyes, was the very young woman with whom he had rowed downriver. Betty had peached.
Who said there was honor amongst thieves?
Toby immediately stood to take his leave. “Good afternoon, Mr. Balfour. My second requirement will have to wait, as I’ll be making a timely exit through the back.”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” The cool voice belonged to an astonishingly beautiful young woman who stepped between their table and the window, blocking t
he constable’s line of sight.
“Hello, Arthur.” She smiled at Toby even as she greeted Balfour. “What interesting friends you have. But as I was saying, you’d best find another means of escape unless you mean to meet the Runner lurking in the shadows of the alleyway. And I can’t imagine that should end well.”
It was the strangely familiar woman he had glimpsed on the quay as he had escaped Grindle’s. But what she might have to do with either Grindle, Betty—who was clearly everything petty and thorough, exactly like her father—or Balfour, Toby could not fathom.
He only knew good advice when he heard it. “Thank you kindly. I believe I’ll head for the roof. And hope to hell the drainpipes aren’t frozen over.”
Chapter 6
Toby took a small set of rooms at the Inn of the Three Kings off Davies Street, right in the heart of merry, Christmas-ing Mayfair. The cheerful, bustling inn was large enough to make him no more than another well-heeled traveler in the seasonal crowd, and provided him a comfortable, warm place to rest his head while the Runners stalked his cold farmstead.
He immediately wrote a note directing his housekeeper to close up his house, take down the knocker and take herself off on an extended Christmas visit to her sister’s in Norwich, which was sufficiently far away to seriously inconvenience the Runner who would most assuredly be assigned to follow her.
It was the little things that gave him pleasure.
Like his beautifully made skiff—Toby sent another note round to Grindle, asking him to store the boat until further notice. And then, he took himself off to a barber, followed by his tailor in Saville Street, so that the following day, Toby might join the well-dressed crowds in the galleries of Somerset House, where he parked himself in front of a gorgeous bronze by Verrochio, and waited until the Honorable Mr. Arthur Balfour made his nervous way across the parquet floor.
“I almost didn’t recognize you after the other day,” Balfour said by way of greeting, as he admired Toby’s beautifully cut bath superfine. “You have exquisite taste.”
Toby tried to school his expression into a smile. “Thank you.”
Balfour had the grace to color. “Not that I’m surprised.”
“And yet you are,” Toby concluded in the same wry tone.
“I am,” Balfour admitted. “I’ve never met someone of the criminal class with…” He let the thought lie unspoken.
“Such good taste?” It wasn’t the first time Toby had heard such a charge. “And you’re wondering how a man like myself—low born, and Scots to boot, would acquire such good taste, but you’re too well-bred to ask. Go ahead—ask.”
“Well, why did you take it up in the first place?”
“Farming? A man has to have a profession.”
“I meant”—Balfour lowered his voice—“jewel theft. You’re a man of obvious sense as well as taste—you must know that in the end, crime doesn’t pay.”
“Ah, but it does, my dear boy—ask any banker. But to answer your question, I took up theft to acquire this good taste that you are so obviously admiring—and which I admire as well—to afford the things that a crofter’s son could never dream of if he didn’t take shortest route off the moor.”
“And how did you get off the moor?”
“Strong legs and natural agility—I walked. And then by virtue of those same endowments, I joined a traveling circus to make my fortune. Unfortunately, the circus folded just before we reached London. I was destitute and hungry, and although such a state was hardly new to me, I decided to put my agility to a more commercially rewarding use.”
“So you stole.”
“I did indeed.” He would not deny that which had long ago been lawfully proved. “Very successfully.”
Arthur Balfour shook his head. “You claim your lack of scruples honestly.”
“If it helps your judgement of my scruples, I only stole from those whom I judged would never go hungry.”
“Ah, so you’re something of a present-day Robin Hood, are you, stealing from the rich?”
“But not giving to the poor,” Toby corrected him. “No. I kept every single thing I stole for myself—or at least kept the money from the sale. I admit I was a thief—just like you.”
“I am nothing of the kind, sir.” Balfour was all sudden effrontery. “My profession is to assesses risk and—”
“You make wagers on other people’s money—and sometimes with other people’s money. When you make a mistake, do you give the money back?”
“I work within the bounds of the law.”
“At the moment, I don’t have that luxury, because the law will condemn me no matter that I have not actually stolen anything in years. I paid my debt to society with my own blood—and the blood of other honest, true men—and I still have to prove my innocence every day of my life.” Toby took to his feet to exercise his feelings. “But it is a far harder thing to prove that you haven’t done something than to prove that you have.”
“But this is England, and the rule of law is fair.”
“Only if you can afford to make the rule of law work for you. The law shan’t be fair to me—the magistrate will condemn me by reputation alone, without any shred of actual evidence.”
“Yes. I suppose he will…” Balfour’s voice trailed off in a way that prompted Toby to take a closer look at him—the poor fellow looked a little too green around the gills.
“What is it? What is it you aren’t telling me.”
“I’m afraid I told the magistrate what you are planning to do.”
Toby would have sworn a blue oath had he not been standing in the middle of a public gallery. “Well, that is at least refreshingly honest. I suppose I ought to have expected it.” He really had been out of the game for far too long—he had gone soft. “They swore against me, I suppose?”
“No, actually, they thought it was a wonderful idea for me to set you up. They think you’re going to hand them the evidence they seek—they think they’ll catch you red-handed, as it were.”
Toby took that news with a dose of navy fatalism—there was no avoiding the coming battle, so a man had best make peace with the cannonballs. “They think it’s me anyway—though I thank you for the warning. And it may even prove a boon to have two sets of eyes watching the right places—mine and theirs. Perhaps their zealousness will be useful, after all. And speaking of useful—I’m being useful to you in trying to put a stop to these thefts, and therefore your losses. But you have yet to be useful to me—especially after you’ve ‘peached on me,’ as we of the criminal class would say.”
Balfour colored again. “I needed some assurance that you wouldn’t play me for a fool. So if the Runners do catch you stealing from these people I’m about to give you—”
So Balfour did plan on assisting him—the realization mitigated some of Toby’s annoyance. “My loyalty to your brother was your assurance. But I had hoped my word alone might have been.”
Balfour was apologetic. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t think I knew you well enough to take you solely at your word. As I said, you’re a rather bad risk.”
That was also refreshingly honest. “Enough weighing out of scruples. Give me your list or don’t, but decide now.”
Reluctantly, young Mr. Balfour reached into the breast pocket of his coat and withdrew a folded and sealed paper.
Toby felt the strange sort of anticipatory tingle he used to get before handling precious jewels as he broke the seal. “Very nice,” he said as he scanned the document. “Very thorough. Excellent.” He folded the paper away into his own well-concealed pockets. “Now, the second thing I require from you is an entrée into Society.”
“Me?” Balfour was all astonishment. “You mean you want to appear in public with me?”
“I am a former officer and friend of your step-brother you chanced to meet at Somerset House galleries. We struck up a friendship. Don’t worry—I shan’t embarrass you. I do know how to behave in polite society. Though I was only a warrant officer in His Majesty’s
Royal Navy, your Captain McAlden saw that my training included the fine art of being a gentleman.”
“I see.” If Balfour objected to equating a warrant officer with a gentleman he kept it to himself. “Well, I do have family connections who aren’t too high in the instep, and who have not yet left for the country. I might be able to include you in one of their evening parties. But after that, receipt of any invitations will be entirely up to you.”
“Say no more.” Toby touched his hat in politesse. But young Balfour wasn’t going to be let off so easily—where would be the fun in that? “Thank you for such valuable information, though I must trouble you for one more thing—an introduction to that intriguing sloe-eyed blonde from the other morning.”
“Cally?” The poor fellow choked on his own breath. “I—”
Toby patted him solicitously on the back. “My dear fellow, take a good long breath—you look like you could use it before you accompany me to meet this Cally this evening.”
Chapter 7
Caledonia recognized him the moment he entered the room by her step-brother’s side—the dashing, then-bearded man who had rushed out of the wine merchant’s on Adelphi Wharf. The same man that gamine girl had taken away downriver in a boat before the Bow Street Runners had scurried and nosed all the way through the wine merchant’s warehouse.
The man she was sure was Mr. Tobias McTavish.
Caledonia would bet her fastest mare—the one she rode to escape her mama-in-law’s lamentations—on it. He was exactly as she had always pictured him—minus the rough beard, which was now gone, revealing a smooth, freshly-shaven jawline—from her brother’s descriptions. A man of “fine mettle and loyal heart,” with those marvelously keen eyes. And that tall whip-cord form. And a lean, tensile strength that emanated from him like steam from a boiling kettle.
And why else would Runners have been pursuing him if he were not McTavish? Why else would young Betty have brazenly called him a thief as well as a rogue?
He had to be Tobias McTavish.
