An Honorable Thief

by Anne Gracie

  Games? Hugo thought of the numerous occasions where his half-brother had thrashed him under the pretext of play­ing a game. He could not recall a time he had not been aware that his half-brother despised him. His father as­cribed any vulnerability or weakness of the child Hugo as evidence, not of his tender years, but of his inferior breed­ing. His half-brother was a young thug, a bully and he soon discovered that their father was indifferent to anything he might do to the little boy twelve years his junior. He was the heir, the golden one.

  "Oh, my half-brother was a good deal older than I, and we had not much to do with each other. He was not inter­ested in the same things I was, so I kept fairly much to myself." Wherever possible.

  Hugo was starting to feel uncomfortable, relating such things about his childhood. When spoken of in such bare terms, it sounded too much like a sentimental tragedy-tale for his liking. It was all in the past now, and nothing to be done. It was best to forget such things and get on with life. And her hand was still resting, oh so lightly, on his knee. Yes, the present was so much more pleasant than the past.

  "In any case there is little further to be told, for my father died when I was nine, and my half-brother was killed in a hunting accident the following year, leaving a widow and infant son, and, soon afterwards, I left Shropshire."

  "Oh, how sad. Where did you go?" She seemed sud­denly aware of where her hand rested and snatched it back, looking faintly self-conscious. He pretended not to notice. His knee felt cold, now, where before her hand had warmed him.

  He shrugged. "My father and half-brother had left things in a shocking financial mess, and so my sister-in-law re­turned to her father's home in Kent with her infant son."

  "And you went with them, of course."

  "No, that's when I was sent to sea."

  She looked surprised. "I take it that was a family tra­dition."

  "No."

  "Did you want to go to sea?"

  An image came to his mind of a ten-year-old boy, clutch-j ing a small bundle of belongings and shivering with fear j and cold as his brother's servant walked away down the gangplank. "I wasn't consulted."

  She frowned thoughtfully. "You were only ten, were you not? It must have been very frightening, to be sent so far from all that was familiar." She touched him again, softly on the arm. She was not aware she was doing it, he realised.

  Hugo shrugged. "I became accustomed to it." He did not wish to think about those early terror-filled months; sleeping in the damp, dark hold with rats gnawing at his toes, the cruelties of the harsh captain, the early fears of being made to climb high in the rigging. He did not like to dwell on the past. It made him feel...he was not sure what, but he didn't like it. There was nothing he could do about the past. He preferred to dwell in the present. In the present, he was in control of his life. He glanced at the young woman beside him and his lips quirked. Control?

  "I do not understand this habit English people have, of sending their children away to strangers when they are still so young. A little boy of ten still needs to be loved, even if he thinks he is old enough to be a man. I would never send a child of mine away," she said vehemently.

  Her words sank deep into some hidden place deep inside him. He swallowed. His chest felt oddly heavy. He did not feel comfortable with such talk. It was too intimate.

  "I have a house in Yorkshire now," he said quietly. "A new house; one I built myself."

  "What is it like?"

  "Quite plain, really. I have no taste for fussy embellish­ments and knick-knackery." He'd wanted a new house, one with no memories. A house for the future. It was a beautiful house, with spare, elegant lines and he was very proud of it. So why did it suddenly seem a little bleak and empty?

  "Oh, what a shame! Nothing at all Egyptian? Not even one tiny crocodile-legged sofa?" she said, in mock sorrow. Her eyes twinkled and he knew at once she had similar taste to his, in that, at least.

  He smiled. "You would like Yorkshire, I think. It is quite wild and yet beautiful. A man can feel free there, not closed in, like one feels at times in London. The moors are...a little like being at sea." But he was not here to talk of his home, he recalled. "So now, Miss Singleton, it is your turn to tell me of your home. Where did you live?"

  She half-turned on her seat and faced him consideringly. "I think that is enough talk about the past for the moment,'' she said. "We are becoming a touch melancholy, and it is such a beautiful day. Oh, look, over there is Lady Norwood, your sister-in-law. Should you not stop and greet her?"

  Hugo cursed under his breath. He looked in the direction she was indicating and groaned silently. Amelia was stand­ing, staring at them with a peculiarly triumphant look of outrage. Catching him out in the act of stealing Thomas's heiress. And with the heiress's hand on his arm.

  Hugo sighed. If they spoke to Amelia now, he could not vouch for her discretion: she had a hasty, impulsive temper. "Yes, I suppose I should stop and greet her, but I...I do not care to keep my horses standing in this fresh wind. Would you mind if we returned to Dorset Street?'' A feeble excuse. She would never swallow it. They both knew the horse would take no damage standing a moment of two, even in a freezing wind. And today was a beautiful calm day with a slight pleasant breeze.

  "Not at all," agreed Miss Singleton dulcetly. "I would hate to be the cause of injuring such beautiful steppers by keeping them out in such conditions." Her lips quivered, trying not to smile.

  Hugo tried not to think about kissing them.

  He ought to offer Miss Singleton some excuse for his impoliteness towards his sister-in-law, but he couldn't think, not with her sitting beside him, her eyes brimming with laughter and her lips quivering so temptingly.

  He had to get away.

  He needed to think. He was in danger of slipping under the spell of the smile in her eyes. And the one trembling on her lips.

  His head was aching. He lifted a hand to touch it gin­gerly, to see whether the bump had gone down at all. She stared at his raised hand and he was suddenly aware of an odd, concerned, almost guilty look on her face.

  She was chock-full of contradictions—a teasing minx one moment, a solicitous siren the next.

  He didn't know what to believe. Or who: the wistful-voiced girl who yearned for a home, the indignant virago protective of children or the minx who made up stories and teased him.

  He was supposed to be investigating her background. Not that there was any need, now that Thomas was wedding Miss Lutens. But he had been seized by a compulsion to know all about her. He finished what he started.

  Once or twice something she'd said—or not said—had set off an alert inside him. But then her smile or her scent or a thoughtful look in her eyes had distracted him.

  He had to go home and think about Miss Singleton, in an atmosphere of calm; to a place where he was not dis­tracted by laughing blue eyes, warm lips and the faint per­fume of rose and vanilla. He needed to concentrate on his investigations.

  They swept past Amelia at a brisk trot, bowed politely and headed for the exit. She stood glaring indignantly after them.

  "I don't like this, Miss Kit," said Maggie sombrely. "Surely it's gone far enough."

  Kit continued changing her clothes. As she discarded each item, she folded it neatly and placed it on a large square of oiled silk which lay on the carpet. "I wish I'd never taken you into my confidence, that's what I wish."

  Maggie made a disgusted noise. "Couldn't hardly avoid it, could you, not when I caught you at it." She sniffed disapprovingly. "If I'd know'd what you planned to do, missy..."

  Kit tugged the top over her head, wrinkled her nose, then sneezed. "Pah, I hope that hot water is ready. I am in dire need of a bath."

  "It is, and it's no use pretending ye didn't hear what I said. I don't approve, miss, and that's final." She turned and made to leave the room.

  "Maggie." Kit put out her hand to stop her maid leav­ing. "This is what Papa trained me for, from the time I was a small girl."

  Maggie sniff
ed disapprovingly.

  "You know it is."

  "Aye, I know, but knowin' and approvin' are two dif­ferent matters. It's not right, Miss Kit, ye know it ain't."

  Kit's brow furrowed. "Oh, please understand, Maggie. I made a promise. A deathbed promise."

  Maggie rolled her eyes. "To a man who never kept a promise in his life!"

  "But I am not Papa. I won't break a promise, not to anyone, let alone a dying man. And besides, he was my father. Honour thy father and thy mother.' Kit looked at her pleadingly. "What would you have me do?"

  "I'd have ye do what's right!"

  "But what is right?" said Kit softly. "On the one hand I must keep a sacred promise. A promise, what is more, to retrieve my father's—my family's honour."

  "But to go and—"

  "Yes, I know, but it is not truly wrong, Maggie. They stole what was rightfully my father's. Stole it from him wrongfully, out of jealousy and small-mindedness and spite. Men who conspired together and ruined his life. They Turned him into the unhappy lonely vagabond he became. They forced him into exile. Don't you see? The flawed and bitter man you knew—it is all because of what they did to him, back then."

  Maggie looked troubled, her face crumpled with anxiety. "I dunno, Miss Kit, I dunno. I'm just worried about ye, that's all."

  Kit laid her cheek against Maggie's affectionately and hugged the older woman. "Don't worry about me, Maggie dearest. I can look after myself."

  Hugo Devenish lay in bed, trying to get to sleep. He had been trying to sleep for some time now, but his brain would not allow it. Over and over his tired sleepy mind tumbled the thoughts; fragments of the other mornings conversation, of things she had said during today's drive; impressions, wild thoughts, suppositions chased themselves round and round, giving him no peace.

  A vision of her laughing blue eyes came to him. Beau­tiful eyes. Such mischief in them. And yet such sweet con­cern about his injured head.

  Hugo sat up in bed and stared at the faint chink of moon­light coming in between the curtains.

  She'd asked, "Is your head very sore?", not "Have you hurt your head?"

  She'd known about bis injury already. He recalled the odd flash of guilt he'd seen in her expression. Why on earth would she be feeling guilty about it?

  Of course, she might have been watching from the win­dow; after all, the encounter—he refused to call it a fight— had taken place at the back of her house.

  But if she'd seen what happened, why had she not roused the household and come to his aid? It couldn't be fear— the way she'd coolly dealt with those footpads in the park showed she had courage enough for two. No, she wouldn't have cowered upstairs, watching two men fight. She'd have roused the household. She might even have come her­self... especially if she'd seen him fall under a blow. She was clearly soft-hearted towards her fellow creatures; he'd noticed that during their drive.

  It was all very perplexing.

  What had the Chinaman wanted from the Singleton house? Diamonds? But she never wore anything of value— she was famous for it. And her aunt, Rose Singleton, would have little worth stealing: certainly no fabulous jewels, such had been stolen from Pennington, Alcorne and Grantley.

  Pennington, Alcorne and Grantley.

  Good God! Hugo clutched his sheets in his fists. It was the first time he'd put the three names together in his head. Separately they meant little to him, but together...

  He lit the lamp and consulted a small list by his bedside. Pennington, Alcorne and Grantley! Those three names made up almost half the list he had complied of the old friends of the late James Singleton! It could not be a co­incidence!

  He was right to have suspected some mystery buried in the past. Pennington, Alcorne, Grantley, Marsden, Brack-bourne and Pickford—and an unknown Donald Cran-more—all had been boon companions of the young James Singleton. And somehow, something frightful had hap­pened and Donald Cranmore and James Singleton had left

  England never to return, and no one had ever spoken of it again. The others did not even socialise together now: that was why he had not immediately linked their names.

  Only now, James Singleton's daughter had returned. And suddenly a mysterious Chinese burglar had appeared on the London scene. And three of James Singleton's erstwhile friends had been robbed of their greatest treasures.

  There had to be a connection. It could not be a coinci­dence. There was no doubt at all in his mind; Miss Cath­erine Singleton was somehow in league with the Chinese burglar. Perhaps she even employed him.

  And if Pennington, Alcorne and Grantley had been robbed, then the strongest likelihood was that the next to follow would be Marsden, Brackbourne or Pickford.

  Hugo cursed himself. He should have realised the whole much sooner. Good Lord, had he not suspected the wench of stealing his phoenix tie-pin on that very first night?

  His suspicions had seemed utterly ludicrous then, the product of an unhinged imagination—sweet young inno­cents of the ton did not steal people's tie-pins. But now...

  A sweet young not-so-innocent, who was not only a pickpocket, but in league with the notorious Chinese Bur­glar...

  It was still very difficult to reconcile what seemed to be logical, with the girl he had come to know. The lisping minx, the mischievous baggage who parried his questions with such gaiety, the sweet-faced girl who had taught Sir Bartlemy Bowles a lesson in manners—not many had no­ticed that, but he had. And then there was the cool young Amazon who'd beaten off footpads...

  A thought occurred to him. Was that incident in the park a coincidence, or a falling out of thieves, perhaps? Neither of her two attackers were Chinese, he was sure of that: they were both far too big.

  Hugo groaned and ran his hand through his already di-

  shevelled hair. Was there no end to these plaguey ques­tions?

  And if his suspicions were correct, what the devil was he going to do about them—turn her over to Bow Street? See her hanged, or transported? Sent back to New South Wales, the site of the nonsensical diamond mine—in chains?

  Never!

  Oh, God! What was he to do?

  He lay back in bed, tortured by the possibilities. Then a thought occurred to him and his lips curled in sudden wry amusement. He'd sworn he'd never again become enamou­red of a so-called respectable lady of the ton. He thought he'd broken his own rule but it looked like he hadn't. If his speculations were correct, his lady was certainly not respectable. Virtuous, he thought, but not respectable. What a paradox! If he wasn't so furious, he'd laugh.

  Chapter Eight

  There was a slight stir in several quarters when Mr Hugo Devenish made his entrance at Uppington-Smythe ball a week later.

  "Good grief! It's Devenish," whispered Maud, Lady Gosper to her neighbour. "I thought he was on the barest of civil terms with the Uppington-Smythes. What the deuce is he doin' at their ball, Hettie?"

  "I believe the attraction is the Singleton gel—the new one, not poor Rose, of course," responded Lady Hester Horton.

  "Oh, yes. He's pursuing her quite openly. He was at Almack's last Wednesday night again; he hasn't missed a week since the gel arrived in Town," said the Honourable Pearl Hamnet.

  "Well, he certainly dances attendance on her on every occasion, but as to whether the gel is encouraging his pre­tensions, that's another matter," said Hettie.

  Lady Gosper looked at her and scoffed. "Gel don't want for sense, does she? Full o' juice, that Devenish boy—not like the rest of his family. O' course she'll be encouraging him, Hettie."

  Hettie shrugged. "I had it from Rose that the gel's been devilish fidgety about the way he's been following her around. Can't seem to attend any occasion—rout party, soi­ree, even the theatre, but what Hugo Devenish will turn up. And besides, you forget, Maud—she has no need of a for­tune—she's an heiress herself."

  The three elderly ladies critically observed Mr Devenish pass through the crowd, bowing, smiling coolly and ex­changing a few words with each acquaintance he met. Without
appearing to have made a bee-fine, however, he was, in the space of a few minutes, bowing over the hand of the elder Miss Singleton, before bowing to her niece.

  "Boy's got good manners, even if he has got cit blood in him."

  Hettie shook her head. “Makin' a complete cake of him­self, Pearl."

  Maud made an irritated gesture. "Rose needs to take a firmer hand with that gel—gettin' fidgety indeed! The Dev­enish boy is a good match for that chit, cit blood or no cit blood! In my day a gel would marry whoever she was told to and that was the end of it. Whistlin' a good match down the wind, indeed!" The old lady snorted. "Even if she is an heiress!"

  Pearl leaned forward conspiratorially. “My husband tells me they're laying bets on it at White's."

  Maud made a rude noise. "Pah! Of course they are— that doesn't mean anything. Men will bet on anything. Nothin' better to do with their lives, poor, simple crea­tures!"

  On the other side of the room another hasty colloquy was taking place.

  "Thomas, I told you! See, he is here again—pursuing her in the most blatant possible fashion! It's an absolute disgrace. I told you not to believe him—she must be an heiress, else why would your uncle be pursuing her so shamelessly!"

  Thomas shifted uncomfortably and glanced around. "Hush, Mama. People will hear you."

  "I do not care who hears me!" snapped Amelia, low­ering her voice, nevertheless. She continued in a loud whis­per, "Now go at once and be nice to that girl, Thomas. Heaven knows she must be feeling neglected—you have scarcely spoken to her in days and days."

  Thomas sighed. “Very well, Mama, but not just now. I am promised to dance with another young lady."

  Amelia stamped her foot in annoyance. "Oh, must you forever be playing protector to that little nobody! I am cer­tain Sir Bartlemy is nowhere near as bad as you have painted him. Look! There he is dancing with the Langley chit, who looks perfectly happy."

  They both turned to watch the dancers, who were en­gaged in a lively Scottish feel. Sure enough, there was Sir Bartlemy mincing smilingly up to his partner, the youthful Miss Langley, his hand outstretched. Miss Langley held out her hand to take his, but she unaccountably missed his groping fingers and her small fist collided with Sir Bar-demy's cheekbone.