An Honorable Thief

by Anne Gracie

  He looked into her eyes. They were blue, troubled and betrayed. "Yes," she said.

  Disdaining the suggestions of the others to take Kit up to her room, Hugo carried her outside into the sunshine. He refused to let her walk, and strode purposefully to the north-facing side of the house.

  In a few moments they reached a herb garden, laid out in a huge cartwheel shape made of mellow red brick, worn and smooth with age, A carved stone seat and an ancient stone sundial stood in the centre of the wheel. He made his way to the centre and finally, reluctantly, placed his pre-cious burden on the seat.

  They sat, side by side in silence for a moment or two. He possessed himself of her hand, reluctant to break all contact with her. She seemed not to mind; in fact, she even allowed herself to lean a little against his shoulder. Her hands clutched his convulsively. She stared blankly in front of her, her eyes troubled and unhappy. Devastated.

  The peace of the herb garden surrounded them. Many of the herbs were in bloom and the bees buzzed fatly from the purple spires of lavender to the small white flowers of the lemon balm. Thyme flowered at their feet, mingling with a drift of Sweet Alice, spreading around the base of the stone seat. Bruised thyme leaves sent up a clean, pun­gent fragrance. The perfume of the Sweet Alice teased their senses. Birds sang and chortled in the distance. The sun warmed the stone and the flowers lifted their faces towards it. A soft breeze danced in the dark curls of the girl by his side.

  He was waiting for her to speak, but a part of him wished she never would. He would be happy if this moment could last forever.

  His hand cradled hers, his thumb caressing the warm silky skin.

  "It was my father in those paintings," she said at last.

  He waited for her to explain. She said nothing more. Birds sang and chortled in the distance. Tiny butterflies fluttered back and forth across a clump of wallflowers.

  "Yes?" he prompted.

  "My actual, real father."

  "Yes." Hugo was puzzled. "You mean in the Reynolds portraits?''

  She shrugged against his shoulder. "I didn't look at who painted it—but the subject was Papa!" She turned to look at him and he was stunned by the distress in her eyes. He wanted to caress her face, but she held onto his hand, hard, refusing to release him. She didn't even know she was do­ing it, he realised. If he hadn't seen into her eyes, he would still have known she was upset by the restive way she gripped his hand.

  "It was Papa!" she said again, as if still unable to be­lieve it.

  "Who did you expect to see?''

  "I don't know—someone, anyone—just Rose's brother."

  "But..." He trailed off. "You mean," he said slowly, "that until you saw those paintings, you thought that Rose's long-lost brother was someone else—not your fa­ther?"

  She nodded her head, chewing on her lip in distress.

  "You didn't know Rose was your aunt."

  She shook her head miserably. "Not my real aunt." She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Oh God, what have I done? Why didn't he tell me?"

  "You mean your father?"

  She nodded again. “All my life, there was just Papa and me. And then, when I was thirteen, Maggie, my maid."

  He frowned, opened his mouth, then closed it. There was something, some mystery there. But this was not the time to ask.

  "Papa always said I had no other relatives in the world— only him—except perhaps some unknown cousin of Mama's, in Ireland."

  Ireland. So that's where she got that colouring, he thought. Those blue, blue eyes, the creamy soft skin and the silky dark curls.

  "But you came to Rose as her long-lost niece."

  "I thought..." She blushed. "He did refer to her as my aunt, but..." She would not meet his eyes. "There were many women Papa told me to call 'Aunt'. They came and went, all through my childhood." She shrugged, shamefac­edly. "I'd never heard of Rose. I thought...I thought..." Her hand tightened in his.

  He put his arm around her shoulder and drew her even closer against him. "I understand."

  She pulled away from him suddenly. "No, you don't! You know nothing, you understand nothing! You don't know what I've done!"

  "I understand more than you think," he said.

  She stared at him, her eyes troubled and bitter.

  He proceeded to tell her all he had surmised, beginning from how he had begun to investigate her background when his nephew had expressed his intention of marrying an heir­ess—the new diamond heiress.

  She groaned, drooping, her hands over her eyes in mor­tification. "I suppose you discovered that I was no such thing."

  He nodded wryly. "Not so much discovered. There was no evidence either way, and you are a very difficult young lady to pin down. But I knew it, all the same."

  Kit sat up suddenly and said slowly, "I thought it was just one of his schemes. It was so like Papa to make a scheme extra-elaborate by throwing in something like dia­monds at the last minute... But if I really am Kit Singleton, if Rose really is my aunt, then, why...?"

  "Perhaps he thought if you were thought to be rich, it would help you find a husband, though I myself would have thought—"

  "No, I don't think he ever gave a thought to my mar­rying," she said absentmindedly. "He had another scheme for me."

  Hugo waited for her to tell him, to admit, finally that she was the Chinese Burglar. He knew it, but he wanted to hear her say it. To him. Only to him.

  Kit took a sudden breath. "You know, just as he was dying, Papa started to tell me he had written to Rose from New South Wales, but he died before he could tell me what it was about. Perhaps he had a different scheme in mind then and the two became confused..."

  A bungler, as well as a selfish swine, thought Hugo an­grily. What he wouldn't give for an hour alone with the callous knave who'd been Kit's father.

  "Ouch!" Kit winced and tugged at her hand, and he realised he was clenching his fist over her hand.

  "Sorry." He lifted her hand and kissed it gently. His long thumb caressed her skin tenderly.

  "So what was this other scheme your father set you to do, if it was not to find a husband?"

  She looked at him pensively, then took a deep, decisive breath. “No, there is no point. I have burdened you enough already with the troubles of my family."

  "It is no burden. And I very much wish to know."

  She glanced at the garden. "It is a lovely day, is it not? Shall we return to the others? The fresh air and the sunshine have quite restored me."

  He ignored her attempt to change the subject. "The Chi­nese Burglar. I suppose he was your father's idea."

  "No," she admitted ruefully after a moment. "The dis­guise was my idea. If you provide people with an obvious enigma, they often do not notice the true mystery."

  "And this 'true mystery'—was it for money, or for some other reason?'' he probed.

  She smiled. "I said I was not going to burden you, and I will not." She rose. "I am feeling perfectly well now. Shall we return?''

  Infuriating, stubborn little piece! Hugo did not move.

  And yet, why was he not surprised that she would not confide the whole to him? He was furious at the whole situation, and immensely frustrated by her determined in­dependence, but he could not find it in his heart to be angry with her. He admired independence. And loyalty.

  If her story was to be believed—and he did believe it, despite all the other deceptions she had perpetrated—her father had lied to her all her life. What sort of a man did that? What sort of a man would send his only daughter into such a mad, desperate masquerade—when there was no need for it? Why have her pretend to be Rose's niece, when she was her niece in truth? And why, oh, why, set it about that she was a diamond heiress, when he must have known how easily such a huge fraud would be exposed?

  And why had she committed those burglaries? She still hadn't explained that. Hugo was suddenly sure it was not about money.

  "Pennington, Brackbourne, Alcorne, Grantley, Pickford, Cranmore and Marsden—all of th
ese were once your fa­ther's boon companions."

  She went suddenly very still.

  "'There was a mystery about the way in which your fa­ther left England. It was very sudden and very odd."

  "Four of them—Pennington, Brackbourne, Alcorne and Grantley—have been robbed by the Chinese Burglar. Pick-ford and Marsden have been spared, so far." He noticed her flush and look away and was immediately alert. “And Cranmore seems to have left the country at the same time as your father—it was all hushed up."

  "Cranmore?" She looked puzzled. "I have never heard of Cranmore."

  It was a tacit admission she knew of the others in con­nection with her father. Hugo stood and took her arm.

  "'I have made enquiries. Something significant happened around twenty-two years ago, but none of the principals involved will talk about it. However, I think if we ask Sir William what happened, he would tell you. You have a right to know."

  She hesitated. "You will not tell Sir William... everything? He is a magistrate, after all."

  Did she still not trust him? He shook his head. "No."

  Kit took a deep breath. "Very well then, I will ask Sir William to tell me his side of the story."

  Hugo frowned. His side of the story. Interesting phrasing.

  It was after supper when Kit and Hugo requested a pri­vate word with Sir William. The rest of the house-guests were involved in cards or gathered around the billiard table, so their presence was not missed. Sir William took them to the library.

  "We were all young then, a trifle wild, as young men are. Mad about horses, up for any lark, drinkin' to excess every night and still able to get up with the birds to go huntin'—can't do that now, mind! Constitution won't stand it." He smiled reminiscently, then slowly the smile faded.

  "'It was the cards that was the trouble. Gamblin'. Jimmy Singleton..." He shook his head. "Became a fever with him. Had to win, all the time. More and more. Took to goin' to the hells—not places like White's and Brook's and Boodle's, where the rest of us went, but some of the, er, less savoury establishments. Not too fussy about the stan­dards, if you know what I mean," he added, looking a little uncomfortable.

  Kit nodded, biting her lip. She'd always believed that aspect of her father had emerged after his exile from En­gland, not before.

  "Thing is, he got... Well, it was as if the cards were the only thing that was real to him." Sir William sighed and stared sadly into the fire. "Changed him, it did. Not the fellow we knew..."

  "What caused him to leave England, sir?" prompted Hugo.

  Sir William heaved another sigh. He got up and poured himself another brandy. "Another one, Devenish? No. Miss Kit, a sherry perhaps?"

  They each declined. Sir William took a large swallow of brandy and took his glass to the fire. He stood with his back to the fire, glass in hand, staring meditatively at a hunting scene on the opposite wall.

  "It was here, at this very house, in fact. M'parents were up in London; we young bloods were down for a week of huntin'—Johnny Pickford, Brackbourne, of course, Pen-

  nington, Alcorne—he didn't have the title then—Grantley, young Cranmore, and your father. And me, of course. Young Cranmore was getting married in a couple of weeks and we'd decided to have a bit of a bachelor party. All very much as normal—a bit o' high spirits, but no harm in it. Only we got to playin' cards and drinkin'."

  He paced around the room, obviously ill at ease. “It all boiled down in the end to a battle between Cranmore and Singleton. Cranmore was younger than us, and not too plump in the pocket but...well...never mind that side of it."

  Kit and Hugo exchanged a puzzled glance. Never mind what side of it? But before they could ask, Sir William was continuing.

  "Singleton was obsessed. Relentless. Goaded Cranmore into betting more and more, pourin' more and more wine into him, and pushin' him into drinkin' more than he could handle." He shrugged. "Nothin' really wrong with that, o' course. Cranmore was his own man, after all. Ought to know his own limits."

  He shook his head. “Trouble was, Cranmore was losin'. He was scrawlin' vowel after vowel, and Singleton kept acceptin' them, even though the rest of us tried to get 'em to stop."

  There was a short silence, in which the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. "It was almost dawn, no light yet, but you could hear that racket the birds make just before dawn, you know? Well, just around then, they finished up. Cranmore said in a queer, cracked voice, 'That's it.' Nothin' else. Just, 'That's it.' His face was this terrible grey colour—I'll never forget it.

  "And your father..." Sir William looked at Kit. "Your father started laughing. He'd won everything. Cranmore was ruined. Lost everything—money, horses, property— even his family home.

  "I remember Cranmore saying, 'I won't be able to get married now,' and your father just shrugged and said, 'So be it,' and kept fiddlin' with the damned cards—excuse me, Miss Kit—with the dratted cards. So in the end, Cranmore left. Had to give him a horse m'self. Singleton wouldn't let him take his own horse, wouldn't even let him borrow it and return it later."

  Kit closed her eyes in shame. She had seen her father winning before; he was not a gracious winner.

  "So poor young Cranmore rode off to break the news to his widowed mother and younger sister—''

  Kit winced.

  "—and o' course Alcorne and Grantley went with him to make certain he didn't do anything foolish, if y'know what I mean. And the rest of us just sat there, shocked. One of our friends had just made another one destitute, and that wasn't the worst of—well, we won't go into that. But Singleton just kept fiddling with the cards, and I must admit I got so confounded angry with him, just sitting there, grin-and shufflin' the cursed pack, that I snatched them off him and tossed them into the fire."

  There was a long heavy silence. "And that's when we saw it. Saw the pinholes in the pasteboard, with the fire shining through 'em. No mistakin' it—Brackbourne pulled a dozen or more of 'em out of the flames so we could be certain—the cards were marked. Singleton was a wretched cheat. Not only that, he'd used marked cards to swindle his own s—well, doesn't matter who. Man was a cheat."

  Hugo went to the side table and poured himself and Sir am a brandy. He poured a sherry for Kit without ask-ing. She accepted it with shaking hands, thankfully.

  It was no surprise to find her father cheated. He'd done it often in the last few years. But she thought all those things—the lying, the cheating, the bitterness, the drinking and the dishonesty—were a result of his unjust exile from English society.

  It turned out that they were the reason for it.

  Nothing he had told her was true. Nothing! He'd told her she had no family left in the world, and yet Rose, sweet gentle Rose, was her aunt.

  He'd told her he'd been victimised, abused and exiled because of a great injustice done to him. But the great in­justice he had suffered was to be caught cheating at cards. And not simply cheating—deliberately bankrupting a young man who was a friend of his, a young man about to get married.

  Kit writhed with shame inside. This was her father. Her blood.

  In the greatest irony of all, he'd sent her out to risk her liberty and perhaps her life, to redeem his honour.

  His honour!

  Sir William spoke again. “Well, as you can imagine, we wanted to tell young Cranmore his fortune was safe after all, so Johnny Pickford rode after the others to tell 'em the good news... Only what we didn't know, was Pickford took a toss twenty miles from Cranmore's home, and was took up for dead by some villager and laid unconscious for days, while the rest of us had no idea." Sir William paced back to the fire, and unconsciously lifted his coat tails to warm his backside.

  "By the time he came around and a message was sent back to us, and we'd chased after Cranmore, it was too late. The damage was done!"

  Kit sat forward. "You don't mean—?"

  Sir William stared. "What?"

  "He didn't shoot..." Sh
e couldn't finish the sentence.

  "Oh, no, no, my dear, no need to look so distressed. Cranmore hadn't killed himself, no, no. But he'd left the country. Settled his mother and his sister with relatives first and then signed on as an ordinary seaman on the first ship leaving for the east. Lad was so deeply ashamed of his foolishness that he swore he wouldn't come back until he'd regained his fortune."

  "What happened to him?" asked Kit.

  Sir William shook his head sadly. "Never saw the poor fellow again."

  "But didn't anybody write?" Kit was appalled.

  Sir William shrugged. "Nobody knew where he went. Didn't know where to write. His mother died soon after the

  hole thing and the sister married a Scotsman—went to five in Edinburgh or some such place. Never saw her again, either."

  He looked at Kit sorrowfully. "Dratted unpleasant tale, sorry it had to be me to tell you."

  "'What did you do with Singleton?'' asked Hugo. He had a fair idea, but wanted to be sure.

  "Well, we all decided, best thing to do for the family's sake, hush the whole thing up. Singleton's family knew, of of course, but no one else. He agreed to go abroad in exchange for a regular sum to be paid to him."

  The Pittance, thought Kit bitterly. Another mystery solved. How typical of Papa to belittle something he should have been grateful to get. He hadn't deserved such for­bearance.

  "And his father decided it would be best if he was thought to have perished while doing the Grand Tour. So after a few months, a report was sent from Italy that he had died. And that was that. Until a pretty young miss arrived and we find that a new bud has bloomed on the family tree of the the Singletons," finished Sir William gallantly.

  The big, bluff man's unexpected kindness took Kit by surprise. She had been prepared for his disapproval, for discomfort and embarrassment.

  But this ponderous, gentle compliment from a man both she and her father had wronged flayed her guilt like no righteous attack could have. Tears flooded her eyes.

  A bud? A bud from a diseased branch, she thought bit­terly. They had both sprung from the branch of the family tree that should have been cut off and burned, long ago.