by Eva Devon
Elliott rubbed the back of his neck. He knew he should report the events of last night. And he was going to. He didn't understand his own reluctance. So a pretty woman had flirted with him and lifted some jewels from his pocket. Only the jewels, not the evidence. He'd never broken character, and she likely thought him a burglar just like her. He'd done nothing wrong, except for those few moments when she'd been in his arms and he forgotten that he was a Liar and she was just a pretty demi-rep.
“So...last night—”
James interrupted him. “The bloody hell of it is,” James burst out, “that every person that claims to been robbed by the Vixen is on our operations list.”
Elliott's gut went cold. “Wait— The ops list?”
“The list where we keep the names of all suspected traitors.” James was pacing now.
Elliott shook his head in disbelief. “How could that be? How could some night-thief have the same incredibly secret list that we have? I don't even know who is on that list, unless you tell me!” A sudden thought made him pause. “Are there Liars we don't know about?”
“I don't know.” A deep voice came from the doorway. “Are there?”
James and Elliott turned to see their spymaster, the Gentleman, former right hand of the Crown, Dalton Montmorency, Duke of Etheridge. He glared at them both with his eerie silvery eyes.
Dalton didn't actually loom over Elliott, although sometimes Elliot felt as though he did. The Gentleman was an intense individual with a long strange history of his own. Not to mention being very wealthy, very titled, and according to all the ladies associated with the club, very handsome.
Personally, Elliott didn't see it. To him, the club's superior commander was simply scary as hell. He resisted the impulse to take a step behind James. After all, James was the sturdy next link in the chain of command, and therefore really ought to be first in the line of fire.
Too bad there wasn't a window Elliot could duck out of.
Dalton pinned James with his unnerving gaze. “We need to know who she is.”
Well, damn. There it was. With a secret sigh, Elliott raised a hand like a schoolboy and wiggled his fingertips. “I think I know who she is.” He took a step back when both men whirled on him. “At least, I think I met her last night. Which is why I came home with nothing but the documents—”
The gazes turned into glares. Elliot gave a cavalier grin and a shrug in return because, national security or not, he still thought fondly of that dance. “She robbed me.”
Amie glared at the stout man facing her across the counter. “These pearls are very fine.”
The pawnbroker, Connors, a part-time book-maker and full-time receiver of stolen goods, opened both hands in an eloquent shrug. “That as may be, Miss Amie. Only everybody knows there's some girl out robbin' places. Now, what harm do you think would come to me if I was caught tradin' in the Vixen's goods?”
Amie reached for patience and dripped a bit of honey into her voice. “Connors, you know me. You were one of Papa's dearest friends. If I tell you that I am not the Vixen, you can believe me. If you've seen the gossip sheets today, you know perfectly well that the house that was hit last night by the Vixen was in Grosvenor Square. These pearls are not from Grosvenor Square. I will swear to you on my father's life—I mean, my father's grave.” Papa would be the first to approve of the lie.
Connors smiled kindly at her, his amused paternal gaze making Amie's teeth grind. “Ain't been no report on what else was took from Grosvenor Square, other than that emerald. Could be pearls, could be not. What I know is, we got hired agents watching all our shops, though we be honest and righteous merchants. Them toffs want their jewels back and they want 'em now.”
Amie tried to recall how her father had negotiated with this man. She fixed him with a confident gaze and kept her voice even. “You're going to buy these pearls. Let's be very clear about that. You know you are going to buy them and I know you're going to buy them. So the only question is, how much will you pay for them?”
Connors shook a finger at her teasingly. “None o' yer sass, Miss Amie,” he said with a grin. “Maybe I'll buy 'em and maybe I won't. If I did, I'd have to figure in the risk. Vixen jewels are chancy. I'd have to hold onto 'em for a long time afore I dare sell them on. So I'm thinkin' I should only be givin' you a quarter o' what you're askin’.”
Since she had asked for twice what she thought she could get, this meant that she was going to get half of what she really wanted for the jewels. Her heart sank. He was starting too low. If he'd meant to haggle her for a fair price, he'd have opened closer to the real value. She looked past his disarming, snaggletooth grin and his grandfatherly gray hair to the sharp glint in his eyes and the resolute set of his chin.
Blast it. He wasn't going to go any higher.
“You must understand how important this is to us!” She wished she had Ruby's theatrical talent. She would give anything to drum up some tears at this moment. “Without Papa—” Her throat tightened. “There's nothing left, nothing but the house itself. If I don't get a good price for these pearls, we could lose it entirely.” Her voice actually broke slightly on the last word. Her eyes began to burn.
The tears were coming after all. She ought to have milked the moment for all the sympathy the man was capable of. She couldn't do it. Even though she knew it might help if she cried, she gritted her teeth and lifted her chin. She wouldn't weep before this man, who had once been so close to her father that she had called him uncle.
Blast Papa's felonious underworld friends! Not a single one of them had even offered her the piddling price Connors had offered her, and now she had no choice but to take it.
What a crew of thieves!
A few moments later she walked out of Connors's establishment with her reticule lightened by several strands of pearls, and unfortunately not made much heavier by the guineas within. She'd had no choice. She and her sisters could not survive much longer on frugality and the resilience of youth.
Papa's words rang in her mind. They’ll never forgive me, but you’re safe. They don’t even know you exist. But if they ever find you—especially if they realize how much you know about them…
Amie believed him. That's why she hadn't allowed Ruby to come, even though her pretty sister would have charmed a bit more coin out of Connors. The less Emma and Ruby were openly involved, the less likely they would be to go down with Amie.
She'd been lucky so far. Furthermore, she would take happily take her chances in the magistrate's court. It was the Liar's Club she truly feared. If she were to be discovered by the Liars she was entirely confident she would end up floating in the Thames just like Papa. So bloated and blackened with drowning that he could only be identified by his ugly patterned waistcoat.
Poverty worried her. Prosecution frightened her. The Liars, on the other hand, that vindictive band of merciless assassins, filled her with black and breathless panic!
Chapter 4
Elliott couldn't believe it. He'd been loitering outside this pawnbroker's storefront for several hours, which wasn't easy to do without raising suspicion. He'd pretended at different times to shop for cigars across the street, or to wait upon a companion, impatiently checking his watch. He'd worn out shoe leather strolling nonchalantly on his way somewhere but in no great hurry. But there were a limited number of times one could casually stroll past the same shops in a day. Soon he would have to switch streets with one of his fellow Liars, Feebles or Rigg, who were staked out in front of other pawnbrokers.
It didn't always follow that a thief who targeted the highest in Society would try to sell their loot to a pawnbroker. A truly accomplished rooftop man—er, woman—would surely have a regular receiver. Furthermore, a practitioner of that caliber would have dressed to fit in better with last night's decadent but undeniably elegant crowd.
However, Elliot had recalled that his dance partner's gown had been a little tight in the bosom and, while it looked very nice on her shapely figure, was made of less than th
e finest stuff. Her jewelry had been simple, just a pretty amethyst pendant on a chain and demure diamond earbobs that upon recollection he realized were probably paste.
So, clearly not a rank beginner, but not an seasoned professional either—and therefore likely to take her ill-gotten gains to someone like old Connors, who had helped the Liars dispose of some of their own shady acquisitions in years gone by.
The boredom was getting to him. He was hungry and he needed to—
Suddenly, there she was, stepping out of the doorway marked with the sign of the three gold balls of a pawnbroker.
Elliot hadn't noticed her go in, but now he understood why. She was dressed as primly and sensibly as a governess in a gray walking dress covered by an unadorned brown coat. Drab, almost invisible, as common as a sparrow in a field. If it were not for the wisp of red hair that had come loose at her brow and now drifted across her cheek beneath her bonnet, he still might not have recognized her as his vibrant dance partner. This woman seemed pale, drained and weary.
Not that Elliot cared, of course. Her emotional state was of no concern to him at all. She paused outside the pawnbroker's shop, gave a tug to the wrists of her gloves, and lifted her chin.
He was too far away to know for sure, but he imagined a spark of grim defiance in her eyes. She was still pretty, even disguised as a bland upper-class retainer. In fact, he liked the way she looked at this moment. A woman like her didn't require feathers and paint to be attractive. She was rather splendid, even in her disguise.
As she marched away at what she probably imagined was a perfect pace of a servant on an errand, there was a lithe grace to her stride. That confident way of movement reminded him of the way she had danced last night, with her eyes closed and her body swaying to the music.
It wasn't that she was bold, or cheeky in any way. It was more that she could not quite hide her independent spirit.
He followed her, musing on how her grave carriage seemed as strict as a nun but somehow as direct as warrior. Furthermore, he didn't mind watching her walk away, not one little bit. The skirts of her gown swished very distractingly over her bottom with every step of her determined pace.
He already knew she had an agreeable figure. Lean and athletic, but for that tempting bodice. His arm had fit so nicely around her waist last night…
She turned the corner in front of him and disappeared from his sight. It was sheer habit that had him hurrying to catch up, and a good thing it was. He was so distracted by thoughts of the night before and of the drifting scent of apples and vanilla that he turned the corner too abruptly for proper stealth.
It didn't matter. She wasn't there.
Well now. Maybe she was a seasoned professional, after all. Elliott tugged down on his hat brim as if girding his loins for battle. With a small smile, he set out at speed. She can't have gone far. He could find her.
She might be an expert, but then again, so was he.
After Amie left Connors and his grasping betrayal behind her, she walked from the less respectable High Street to the Oxford Street shopping district. The shops became nicer, and she passed a confectionery and a purveyor of fine leather goods. In her upper class servitor guise, she looked entirely appropriate on this street, so there was no reason in the world for her to feel conspicuous.
Then why was it the hairs on the back of her neck were once again standing at attention? She felt exposed. Watched.
Some people might talk themselves out of that sensation. They might think to themselves, “Don't be silly. It's only your imagination. There's no one after you.”
Amie knew better than that.
Better to look a fool than be a fool, Papa's gravelly voice whispered in the back of her mind.
So Amie turned the next corner a bit sharply, and then ran very quickly for a few feet. Then she ducked into a doorway. In the shadow of it, she hesitated for a long moment, looking down, pawing aimlessly in her reticule for nothing at all, while a few strangers passed and didn't give her a second glance. No one slowed. No one even looked her way.
She stepped out of the doorway to cross the street quickly just ahead of a wood wagon and then had to rush out of the path of a carriage. The horses startled a bit and the driver gave her a scornful glare, but because of her respectable clothing refrained from muttering curses in her direction. She walked quickly, moving alongside the carriage for the length of six storefronts, allowing it to block her completely from the opposite side of the street.
Then she entered one of shops randomly, pushing her way into the store as if the devil himself were after her.
Sundries. All the useful little things that everyone needs but no one ever thinks about buying until they run out. Shoelaces, corset strings, buttonhooks. Low investment, high profit margin.
Amie hurried to the counter, allowing herself to look flustered and a little bit worried. She leaned close to the woman who stood there, dressed in a respectable matrons gown with her hair tightly curled. The woman regarded her suspiciously, although she'd not yet spoken a word.
Old-fashioned, strict, precise with that little gold watch pinned just so to her bosom. A woman of stature in her own community. Judgmental. Of an envious nature.
That assessment no longer than a split second. Amie changed her story in that instant and leaned close to speak in hushed and tense voice.
“I need to speak to your husband.”
The woman drew back. Her lips pressed together and her eyes narrowed. “Not another one. Get out of my shop.”
“I have to speak to him! He has to know…” Amie placed a hand protectively over her navel. “He has to take responsibility—”
Before she could utter another word, the woman had bustled around the counter and taken a painful grip on Amie's upper arm.
“You hussy. I'll teach you to tell lies. My husband can't father children, you ignorant little tramp.”
She was dragging Amie toward the door. Amie tried to jerk her arm free but the woman truly had a deadly grip. It must have been from stocking all those button-hooks. “So you'll throw me out in the street? Right in front of your own shop? What will the public think?”
The woman changed her tactics mid-yank. In no time at all, Amie found herself dragged to the back of the store and thrown forcefully into the alley behind.
The woman spat in her general direction, and slammed the heavy rear door on her. Amie took a moment to straighten her sleeve and push back a strand of hair that come free of her bonnet. Well, that had been considerably faster than trying to charm her way to the back exit.
She had probably lost her shadow, but still, it wouldn't do to go straight home. She might as well take a stroll through one of her favorite neighborhoods, which wasn't far from here at all. The houses were so pretty, and she loved the way the trees branched nearly over the street making it almost like a country lane. Even in winter, a charming sight.
She was strolling beneath the barren trees when the back of her neck prickled once more. My goodness, I am having a day.
So she hurried her steps a bit, turned the corner, turned another corner, ducked down the alley backing another more affluent street and ended up at the gate of a large mews behind a very fine house.
Oh yes, this would do nicely.
Although Amie appreciated the respite standing still in the shadows of the gate next to some skeletal rosebushes, she had been poised there long enough that she was beginning to doubt her own instincts.
She had taken position near the hinges of the gate where it would conceal her when it opened, and was considering the wisdom of moving along, when the latch rattled and the gate slowly opened.
Well then. Perhaps she was not so foolish after all. Papa would be proud.
She wished she wore her boy's trousers instead of her confining gown, but there were a few ways to get around that. Even as the gate continued to open she bent down and grabbed two fistfuls of hem and hiked them up. She tucked the wads quickly into the drawstring waist of her drawers.
/> I'm sure I look ridiculous, like a muslin mushroom. However, now she had all four limbs available for fighting. Best to get this over with quickly, before the chill turned her limbs entirely blue.
It occurred to her a bit too late that she ought to have concealed a stone in her reticule. Her belly rumbled. She was not thinking clearly from hunger.
A figure stepped through the gate. For the first time she actually saw her pursuer.
It was the thief from last night's ball.
Elliot took the first blow on hard on one shoulder. He'd blocked the strike almost by accident, turning when he heard a slight noise behind him.
The kick knocked him off balance. Before his opponent could close in, he threw himself forward and rolled away. His hat spun off into the snow. In a second, he was back on his feet inside the yard and backing away from his attacker who had emerged from behind the gate.
Limbs. Calves and knees and slender ankles outlined in dark winter stocking—and an exhilarating glimpse of bare thighs above the garters. Her white skin glowed against the black stocking-knit.
Oh, glimpses were good. He liked glimpses...
He was so distracted that he almost didn't block the next kick. Almost.
Instead he caught a dainty ankle in one hand just in time and pushed back, hard.
The lady thief fell back, for it was indeed the pretty redhead who had consumed most of his thoughts over the last two days.
She completed a very nice role backward roll herself, and provided him with tremendously pleasing view. Oh, those glimpses...
He realized that there was rather stupid grin spread across his face, but he just couldn't help it. Then she came at him. A whirl of blurred kicks and punches and—damn it, he had underestimated her!
He took a ferocious blow to the solar plexus and a knock to his skull before he pulled his wandering thoughts in order and began to take his opponent a bit more seriously.
