by Eva Devon
He came toward the coach reluctantly, but he came—though he did not come out of the wind into the warm carriage. “What are you doing here?”
She did not try to evade his scorn, but met it straight on. “I came to apologize.”
“Have you?” His brows rose in wary surprise. “How novel.”
She had the grace to feel abashed—her cheeks must be the color of cherries in the biting chill. “Yes, well. I read about the burglaries being solved, and I— Well, I am so very sorry I wrongly accused you. I’m sorry for all the things I said in my mother’s house that morning.”
He tipped his head to the side in consideration. “You were upset.”
“I thank you, I was, but that is no excuse for such a gross misjudgment of your character. That was very wrong of me to leap to such an unfounded conclusion.”
“All the best headstrong girls do it.”
There was almost enough warmth in his tone to make her feel he was teasing her. Almost. “I don’t think you mean that as a compliment.”
“I mean that I accept your apology. I am sorry, too—sorry I’m not the dashing, exciting, faultless person you thought I was.”
She would have none of it. “You’re exactly who I thought you were.” When he looked skeptical at her assertion, she tried another tack. “What are you going to do now?
“The same as I was doing yesterday—find the real thief.”
“But…the broadsheets said it was this Bolter fellow. That they caught him red-handed, as it were, at the Meecham townhouse.”
“They did nothing of the kind.” His growl was laced with impatience. “They found Bolter’s body and jumped to convenient conclusions.”
“Such as?”
“That the crime had been thwarted. But the fact of the matter is that Bolter and Mott were there to stop me, not to rob Lady Meecham’s jewels. Neither of the two men who attacked me were thieves.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I know them just as they know me. And I heard them coming a mile away—they made no bones of it, coming straight to slit my throat with their knives and bash my brains in with their cudgels.”
“They came to murder you!” The realization sent a chill sinking deep into Cally’s bones like a killing frost. She shivered in her fur-lined cloak. “Why?” she asked, even though she understood him perfectly. “To keep you from finding the real thief?”
“Aye.” His voice was nothing but grim resignation.
“Then the broadsheets lied.”
“Lied,” he scoffed. “Surely you’re not that naive—they printed a convenient truth.” Toby shrugged away the injustice of it all. “Bolter was indeed there, and he was indeed tied to the thefts—as, I reckon, are several others. But the broadsheets left off several other important truths, like the fact that Bolter had a wooden leg, and could never have climbed across any roof to emulate the Wraith—he was definitely not the one leaving sprigs of heather in people’s jewel boxes.”
Cally was indignant on his behalf. “Well, that’s not right.”
He turned her concern aside. “My dear Mrs. Bowmont, pray don’t let my unfair treatment keep you up at night.”
“Of course I shall let such injustice to you keep me up at night,” she exclaimed before she could think better of it. “I have for years!”
He stilled. “Years?” He narrowed his eyes at her, but the beginning of a smile lit the corners.
“Yes.” There was no sense in trying to evade his regard now—things had gone too far, people were being murdered. “Ever since I’ve known of you—years. Years spent wondering what you were like, how you were faring in your hard naval career, what you were doing once you’d left the navy. I’ve followed your career with interest.”
“It’s no longer my career.”
“Thievery? I know that—I was only teasing before, so you would admit who you were. I meant farming.”
His smile was kind but skeptical. “What do you know of farming?”
“I know that you’re very good at it. That your Limousin cattle have taken champion ribbons for beef breeds at the Middlesex Fair, and your blackface sheep have taken Best Wooled Breed three years running. And that your spaniel dogs are prized for their keen noses and merry temperaments. And that you’re probably the nicest, most attractive farmer I’ve ever met. And I rather think I’m falling in love with you.”
He stared at her, shocked into momentary silence. “It is very nearly frightening that you know all that.”
She felt her skin flame all the way down her chest. “It is ridiculous, is what it is, not frightening.”
“The prizes, or that you know about them?”
Cally began to feel some of her normal good humor start to return at his quizzical, almost droll tone. “I had assumed you won the prizes fairly, without any bribery of beef breed judges or paying off of blackfaced sheep men.”
“The blackfaced sheep men are notoriously expensive—too rich for my blood.”
She feared she heard a warning in his voice, but she forced herself to have the courage to ask, “And me? Am I too rich for your blood, too?”
He took a deep breath before he answered. “I fear you’re just lonely and bored with nothing better to do than imagine yourself in love—”
“Is that really what you think of me? Is that why you kissed me? And made love with me—because you think I’m lonely? And bored? Have you no idea of what I’m truly like? That I manage my husband’s farm on my own, thank you very much, so my mama-in-law will have peace and comfort and good health all her days, though she wishes with every breath of her body, every single day of her life—and mine—that her son was the one providing those things for her, and not I. That these few weeks of harmless frivolity in London visiting with my mother are the only bloody frivolity I’m like to get until next bloody year. And that I love spaniel dogs even though they are notoriously hard to train properly. And I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to love you if I want to.”
Tobias McTavish was silent again for a long moment before the corners of his eyes began to soften into a smile. “Well, I suppose there is no gainsaying that.”
Hope was like a sunrise in her chest, warming the bleak chill of the morning. “There isn’t. And I don’t care who knows it.”
He rewarded her bravery by reaching for her hand. “In that case, my dear Mrs. Bowmont, I’d be very much obliged of your help.”
Caledonia’s heart did a little cartwheel of joy within her chest. She felt all topsy-turvy with relief and excitement and just a little bit of fear. Because this really was his very life they were playing with—she couldn’t let herself forget that. “What do you need me to do?”
He smiled, that knowing, this-is-going-to-be-trouble smile that warmed the improper cockles of her heart. “Get me an invitation to your mother’s masquerade ball.”
“Done. But you’ll have to have a costume,” she warned.
“Indeed.” He nodded. “What are you wearing?”
“Columbina—she’s a sort of Italianate motley—a harlequin.” Her mother had arranged it all months ago—the bright colored costume a gift in understanding of the bland sameness of Cally’s days in the Cheviot Hills. “Mama will be a Dama Blanca, and Balfour an elegant Clown. The masquerade is really more of a Twelfth Night revel than a sedate Advent Ball, but Mama knows how much I love a revel.”
“You would.” There was no censure in his smile. “I should like to try and fit into your group if I may.”
“Of course. I should like that. Do you want a full mask, so you’re not recognized? Or do you want people to be able to tell who you are?” It was so complicated, this trap they needed to set.
He kissed her hand. “And that is why I may, in fact, be falling in love with you, dear Mrs. Bowmont—your delightfully agile mind. You understand things. And as to the recognition and disguise—I think I want both.”
“Both,” she repeated, beginning to understand. “You want people to think they ca
n recognize you?”
He leaned across the sill of the carriage window and kissed her in confirmation.
Cally’s lips all but tingled—she didn’t know when she had felt more relieved, or more alive. “I think I’ve got an absolutely brilliant idea.”
Chapter 19
Cally had never, ever in all of her life, felt nerves like she did the moment she took her place in the receiving line on the night of the masquerade ball—she felt picked apart, as if the pins and needles holding her costume together were falling out and she was unraveling at her seams, when in fact her patch-color Columbina costume fit her to perfection.
But still, she was as anxious as a tethered racehorse—there were so many details, so many particular things they had had to arrange, so many possibilities for things to go wrong—she could barely stand still.
“Ready?” Tobias McTavish appeared by her side attired in his own form-fitting costume.
Cally took a deep breath in admiration of the magnificently honed body the motley revealed. “Gracious, McTavish. I am as ready as I’ll ever be, though I think I should check to make sure there are adequate chaises in the withdrawing rooms, so the ladies can recover after ogling you.”
He laughed just as she had hoped, dispelling some of her tension. They had spent the previous day in close consultation, working out the details of the roles they were about to play, but the worry—the constant imagining and reimagining all the possibilities—had been exhausting. Cally had hardly slept a wink.
But she forced herself to smile, and be her normal self. “You do look exceptionally fetching in your costume, sir.”
“Let us hope I do—and can fetch both the jewels and my reputation back this evening.” Then he took her hands and spread them out before him, to inspect her costume. “You on the other hand, look stunning. If you were to take up thievery you’d be able to rob men blind just by smiling at them in that costume.”
“Thank you, Toby. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
He leaned in to whisper. “I mean it as such.”
Before he could kiss her, Mama was in the corridor. “Come along, children.” Her mother waved her mask upon a stick to magic them into place before the ballroom doors.
Together they looked magnificent—all hot patches of bright harlequin color that presented a united theme. Toby was all but unrecognizable as their equally masked and turbaned servant in harlequin, bearing an enormous feathered fan to shade and cool them, despite the fact that it was ten o’clock at night. And inside. And winter.
But masquerade balls were not at all about reality. Cally could only hope the fantasy they had spun would do its work.
“Assume that nearly every man without a partner will be a Runner,” Toby whispered at her back. “It will be your job to keep their attention.”
They had worked through her step-father, Viscount Balfour, and his son Arthur to give the constabulary what purported to be a tip-off about the ball. The viscount had hired the Runners himself, saying that he wanted the extra protection of Bow Street’s men to ensure his guests felt safe—Bolter’s death notwithstanding, society as a whole was still nervous of theft.
And even if Toby had no confidence in the Runners’ ability to catch the thief, he needed them to witness it when he did.
The viscount followed his wife, nodding to each of them in turn. “Are we all ready, then?”
Cally smoothed her skirts over her nervous tummy. “I think I know now how they must feel on the stage at Drury Lane, just before the curtain goes up.”
“Break a leg, they say to one another,” Toby laughed.
“Oh, lord, no.” Cally wouldn’t hear of it. “Please don’t break a thing.”
“I pray you will take great care not to break anything,” breathed Mama before she clasped Toby’s hand. “But let us hope the best man indeed wins.”
And so it began, with costumed guests making their way into the house as if it were all choreographed by an unseen hand pulling their puppet strings.
And with those guests, a number of unaccompanied, costumed men made their way into the ballroom without the benefit of being announced, while Cally and her mother greeted and exclaimed over the cleverness and imagination of their invited guests.
“Aren’t you all quite the pretty family group,” more than one wag offered. “And so convivial, your beautiful daughter and your handsome step-son.”
“Oh, that’s not Arthur,” Mama began disingenuously. “Poor boy, always called away on some important business. This is—”
And then Cally would interrupt and whisper, or stop Mama with a quick jab of her fan, or speak over her. “How lovely to see you this evening, Your Grace. That plume in your turban— simply the limit! You must tell me how you contrived it. So original and fetching!”
And on and on they went, greeting after greeting, until at last all the guests were assembled, and the family themselves were about to be announced.
“Oh, gracious!” said Mama in a voice that carried well into the ballroom. “I forgot my fan. Cally, do be a lamb—”
McTavish stepped conspicuously forward. “Let me play my part and fetch it for you, Viscountess.”
“Oh, Toby. Thank you, you’re most kind.”
“Mama! You shouldn’t have said his—” Cally cast what she hoped was a horrified glance toward the ballroom, where the guests suddenly found they had much to talk about behind their own fans.
And several of the hired footmen in their dark livery from the wine merchant moved from their positions along the walls to speak to one of the lone gentlemen in consultation. After a moment of conference and gesticulation two unaccompanied fellows followed Toby out.
Perfect.
Cally whisked a glass of champagne from the nearest tray. “Here’s to success in bold ventures.”
Mama took her own glass, and returned, “Here’s to you getting your heart’s desire, and not getting your heart broken,” as she entered the ballroom as if nothing were at stake.
Cally gulped down the wine. She didn’t want to think about what might happen if it all went wrong—if even one thing went wrong and their plan began to collapse like a flan in a cupboard.
But in another minute her harlequin was back, handing Mama her fan with a courtly bow, and it was time for Cally to act—she went on tiptoe to whisper into his ear as if she were telling him about her mama’s slip-up.
He shrugged, as if the mistake was of no account, and then offered his hand in silent compensation.
“Oh, yes.” Cally gave him a smile as if she might make up for the error by lavishing him with all her attention. “I’d love to dance.”
And so they did. The moment Mama signaled for the players to start, Cally led her harlequin out onto the dance floor where they remained, dance after country dance—with the exception of one short break for the supper at midnight—for the entirety of the ball.
On and on they danced as the others came and went, until at last they were the only pair on the floor, and the musicians finally stopped playing.
Mama had somehow already retired for the evening—it was only the servants from the wine merchant and those loose, unattached men still propping up the walls.
But Cally pretended she had eyes for no one but her partner. “Come,” she whispered just loud enough for every last Runner in the house to hear. “Everyone is gone. Come with me.”
She led her harlequin slowly by the hand out of the ballroom, up the grand staircase, and to the door of her room, where she gave her darling swain her best smile for the benefit of the Runners who had not-so-surreptitiously followed them, and quietly took him into her room, and locked the door with an audible click.
Whereupon poor Arthur Balfour pulled the masque and turban from his head and collapsed into the nearest chair. “My God. I’ve never danced so much in all my life.”
“Nor I,” Cally agreed. “And let’s hope we never have to again.”
They had done their part.
The rest was
up to Toby.
Chapter 20
The grand townhouse was quiet except for the muffled sounds of the servants clearing up—sweeping the floors, packing away the bottles of wine, counting out the silver cutlery.
The Balfour servants were behaving perfectly—snoring in wine-induced slumber from the continuous tipples the hired footmen from Grindle’s had urged upon them. It was a nice touch. The rich were normally easier to rob—they stayed up half the night drinking like lords, and then slept their way through the morning, staying abed until noon. But their servants were usually another thing—they worked into the wee small hours, and were still astir and working well before the crack of dawn.
But not tonight. Tonight Toby was the only one in the Balfour household who was astir through the long hours of the night—he and one other. But Toby was warm and relaxed where he waited in the dark of an alcove at the turn of the bedroom wing. Provisioned against the night by the comforts Caledonia Bowmont had insisted upon providing as chill of night reached its cold fingers on wind that rose up from the river and cut like broken glass under the windowpanes.
The thief would be cold with nerves, anxious to get the job timed exactly right.
Even though it was already too late.
Because Toby heard the thief before he saw the dark silhouette sneak down the servant’s corridor toward Cally’s room—a low creak of the floorboards had Toby crouched and ready when the shadow flitted by, skimming in and out of the pools of light streaming through the windows.
He called to the black-clothed wraith before the small crouching figure could make the door. “It’s locked.” Toby stepped into the middle of the corridor, blocking it. “I locked the door. That’s why I used to prefer the rooftops—can’t lock the outside air.”
The little thief whirled to face him. “Damn ye, McTavish.”
