How to Steal a Thief’s Heart

by Wolf, Bree

  “Mr. Wolsey!” Caroline snapped, intentionally throwing her voice to cause him pain. She was not a vindictive person, but this behavior would simply not do. “I require your attention.”

  “Go away!” he hissed, then flinched at the sound of his own voice.

  Caroline fumed. Oh, if only she could take over the management of the children’s home herself! However, such a task would be impossible to hide from her parents. If only she knew someone who could replace this drunkard.

  “Mr. Wolsey, I truly must protest!” Glaring at the semi-conscious man, Caroline crossed her arms over her chest in imitation of her childhood governess. “This behavior cannot be borne.”

  “Silence!” the man hollered, then flinched yet again. “I don’t need your lecture,” he hissed more quietly. “Leave! Now!”

  Fixing the man with a withering stare, Caroline slowly shook her head from side to side. Anger began to boil in her blood, but she forced it back down. This was not the moment to lose her head. “Mr. Wolsey, what if something were to happen? What if the children suddenly required your attention? Can you deny that you’d be of no help at present?”

  Through narrowed slits, Mr. Wolsey regarded her like an insect he’d like to squash. “I told you to get out. Don’t you have some foolish women’s pastime to devote your time to?” A hint of malice sparkled in his glazed eyes, and Caroline wondered if the man truly was as mentally absent as he appeared.

  Nevertheless, Caroline knew that he’d never respect her—as small a chance as there was of that happening—if she did not put her foot down now. “Mr. Wolsey, if you insist on this childish behavior, I must warn you that I will be looking for your replacement first thing in the morning.”

  His head snapped back up, his gaze slightly more sober than before.

  A bit of a triumphant smile tickled Caroline’s lips as she saw a hint of concern cross his face. “These children are my responsibility and I will see them cared for. Do you hear me, Mr. Wolsey?” Again, she fixed him with her childhood governess’ sternest look. “Now, go and get cleaned up before you show your face around here again.”

  Knowing the man would be of no help, Caroline all but chased him out of his office before setting to work. She tossed out half-empty bottles—perhaps that would sober him up!—swept the floor and then sat down to sort through a myriad of loose parchments before turning to the ledgers. After the two-hour time frame she had at her disposal, Caroline had a reasonable idea of how many children were currently under the institution’s care, if they had been abandoned or were orphaned as well as some other characteristics, such as gender and age.

  Turning to leave, Caroline paused when she found the key to the office in the lock. A small grin tugged on the corners of her mouth and, without further thought, she pulled it out, closed the door behind her and then proceeded to lock it. Then she slipped the key into her reticule.

  “You look pleased,” Sarah remarked when Caroline found her a few minutes later, supervising the nurses of the children’s home in their work. All the sheets and clothes had been washed in boiling water, and the children searched for lice. Fortunately, they’d found far fewer than expected.

  “I evicted Mr. Wolsey from his office,” Caroline told her triumphantly, patting her reticule. “Then I locked his door and took the key.”

  Sarah laughed. “That will teach him.”

  “I certainly hope so.” However, from experience, Caroline knew that those who consumed large amounts of alcohol on a daily basis were a nuisance to deal with. She’d seen it before, and she would see it again. Mr. Wolsey was only one of many.

  After returning home, Caroline sent another note to Lady Woodward, hoping the lady would come to a decision before departing for the country. At present, it was summer and despite the occasional shower of rain, temperatures were pleasant and the children would not suffer too much from the abysmal condition of their home. However, all that would change once the autumn storms blew in.

  Caroline shuddered at the thought of what her little darlings would have to endure. She never spent much time in their company these days for she knew well what looking into their sad little eyes would do to her. She’d almost broken down before, succumbed to hysterics, the weight of her responsibility crushing her until she’d felt she would not be able to rise again.

  Until Caroline had realized that she was no help to anyone in this condition. No, she needed to keep a clear head, which meant she could not allow herself to get emotionally involved. She needed to be strong, tough, determined, and she could not be that person when her eyes brimmed with tears and her heart ached with sorrow.

  Exhausted from a long day, Caroline settled into bed that night, willing her thoughts not to dwell on the children she’d seen that day, their little faces scrubbed clean, their eyes wide as they’d eagerly reached for the few toys she’d managed to acquire. Her heart only ached with all the losses they’d suffered, these torturous thoughts keeping her awake for a large part of the night.

  No, she needed sleep. She needed a clear head. Perhaps she ought to call on Lady Woodward again the next day. Perhaps somehow, she could convince her that…that…

  Caroline sighed as a soft throbbing began in her left temple. Her eyes closed, and she felt relief at the sudden sightlessness. Her fingers reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose where her spectacles sat during the day, their pressure a constant reminder that she was pretending to be someone she was not.

  Do you truly need them to see?

  The echo of the man’s voice was so unexpected that Caroline flinched. Her breath quickened, and she felt the pulse hammering in her neck as the moment on the terrace returned to her.

  At least a fortnight had passed since then. But Caroline still remembered every moment of it. Why, she could not say. After all, Lord Markham had been most insufferable, living up to his dark reputation. Why people called him the Black Baron Caroline did not know. Was it merely his dark hair? Or rather that dangerous gleam in his brown eyes?

  Caroline had heard it whispered that odd things happened at Markham Hall. Since the man rarely received visitors there, not much was known. Gossip abounded about his servants, many of whom were reported to have a missing limb. One even wore an eye patch, like a pirate. Of course, that particular rumor had led to others, suggesting the baron himself was a pirate or a smuggler or a highwayman. The list was endless. She’d also heard that he’d fathered countless children with his female servants, all of whom still lived at the estate.

  Caroline swallowed. No wonder the man never invited anyone. Still, rumors were just that; rumors. And rumors could be wrong. Impressions could be wrong. She knew that better than anyone. With the exception of Sarah, no one knew who she was at heart. No one saw her the way she truly was.

  Do you truly need them to see?

  And yet, he had caught a glimpse, had he not? Lord Markham. Caroline shuddered at the memory of those piercing eyes, gazing down into hers as though he simply needed to look hard enough to unearth her secrets.

  To learn your secrets. Was that not what he had said?

  Had he truly noticed something about her? Something that had led him to the conclusion that she was keeping secrets? No less secrets that were of interest to him?

  Over the past seven years, Caroline had worked hard to blend into the background, to not be seen. Every time a gentleman had glanced at her, his gaze settling for the barest of moments, noting nothing of interest before moving on, Caroline had congratulated herself. No one ever truly looked at her because there was simply nothing to look at. She’d made certain of that.

  Then what had Lord Markham seen?

  He’d commented on her spectacles. Twice. He’d wondered if she truly needed them to see. How could he possibly know that they hindered her eyesight rather than improved it? Had he observed her in a moment of clumsiness?

  Whatever it had been, she needed to be more careful to avoid another slip-up. Her persona needed to be perfect, flawless so as not to rouse suspic
ions. Now that the Season was over, Lord Markham would no doubt find other entertainments and have forgotten about her upon the beginning of the next. Caroline could only hope so for those brown eyes sent a shiver down her spine.

  He’d seen too much.

  And he’d taken note.

  He’d not dismissed it.

  Indeed, the Black Baron made her nervous, far more than Caroline liked to admit.

  Chapter Six

  A Friend’s Request

  He arrived in London in the pouring rain.

  With the cold season trapping him at Markham Hall, granting Daphne countless opportunities to force him into yet another tea party with that hairless doll of hers, Pierce had looked forward to a brisk ride back to London. The day had started out so promising, not a cloud in the sky.

  And now this.

  He was soaked from head to toe.

  Albert, his ancient-looking butler with the nonexistent brows, cast him a disapproving look as Pierce left puddle after puddle on his way across the foyer. “Sorry, old man,” he apologized, knowing how deeply upsetting Albert found anything out of the ordinary.

  Anything that wasn’t quite as it should be.

  “Not to worry, my lord,” Albert assured him. Still, the look on his face disagreed.

  Pierce laughed, knowing well the good heart that beat in the old man’s chest.

  Outwardly, he often appeared cold and frightening—no doubt due to his missing brows, which gave him a very stern look! However, Albert was a deeply empathetic man who’d been dismissed from his previous position after his daughter’s untimely death had thrown him off course. He’d grieved deeply, unable to fulfill his duties and been dismissed within a week. Pierce had come upon him one night upon returning home, sitting out on the curb in front of his former master’s townhouse, not knowing where to turn.

  Albert had been a mere shadow of himself. Pierce had been furious, offering the old man a position within his own home before setting out a few nights later to teach Lord Huffington, Albert’s former employer, a much-needed lesson.

  Indeed, the man had been most attentive with a pistol pointed at his forehead.

  After a warm bath, Pierce donned dry clothes and called for his carriage, his solicitor’s letter safely tucked away in his pocket.

  “Will you return in time for supper, my lord?” Albert asked as Pierce stepped off the landing and made to cross the foyer, once again free of puddles.

  “I cannot be certain, Albert,” Pierce replied as he slipped on a coat and hat. “Do not wait up. I’ll let myself in.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Casting the man a grateful smile, Pierce strode out the door and toward his waiting carriage.

  As the carriage’s wheels sloshed through the wet streets, Pierce wondered what had prompted Mr. Cameron to send him such an urgent letter without adding further details. He could only hope nothing disastrous had happened. After all, he couldn’t imagine what it could be.

  His own father had been shot in a duel some fifteen years ago, starting the first dark rumors that still lingered about his family name. His mother had passed away five years later after catching pneumonia. Neither loss had shattered Pierce for he had never spent much time with his parents. They’d been strangers, ignoring him his entire life.

  As an only child, he’d grown up on his own, finding companionship, the echo of family, not through blood relations, but rather through friendships. Men he’d met in different phases of his life had become as close to him as brothers.

  Ash was one of them, his childhood friend, the man who knew him like no other.

  Pembroke had the potential to be another. They didn’t always agree and, at times, the man’s moods rankled Pierce, but he could not deny that he felt a certain protectiveness toward him as he would a younger brother.

  Then there was Peter, a sickly, young man he’d met in the Caribbean.

  After his grand tour, Pierce had not wished to return home. He had decided to extend his journey to the far shores of America. In Jamaica, he’d met Peter Sparks. He’d been an officer in his Majesty’s service. Once he’d set foot on Jamaica, he’d lost his heart to a dark-haired beauty and never left.

  Pierce had always admired him for his courage to start over, marveling at the utter faith he’d always seen in Peter’s eyes. Never had he feared what might come, always certain that things would work themselves out.

  The rain was still pelting down as the carriage pulled to a halt outside his solicitor’s office. He glanced at the overcast sky, heavy dark clouds lingering that promised more rain still. Pulling his coat tighter about his shoulders, Pierce alighted from the carriage, large strides carrying him across the pavement and up to his solicitor’s door. Fortunately, a small overhang kept away most of the rain as he knocked.

  After a small eternity, in which Pierce could feel fat raindrops all but bounce off the wet step and splash onto his breeches, the door creaked open. “Lord Markham!” Mr. Cameron exclaimed, his small eyes going wide as he pulled open the door with a rapid motion, all but slamming it into the wall. “I wouldn’t have expected you so late nor in this weather.” Flustered, he offered to take Pierce’s coat before inviting him into his office.

  Mr. Cameron was a shrewd, if a bit overwrought, man. He tended to fidget, his fingers always finding some button to turn and twist until it popped off. Most people found him odd, and he had been struggling as a solicitor when their paths had crossed.

  “Your letter suggested that it was a matter of some importance,” Pierce replied, seating himself in the somewhat spindly-looking chair across from Mr. Cameron’s desk. Ledgers and books were stacked high upon it, and Pierce wondered if anyone had ever lost their life to one of those towers caving in.

  “It is. It is,” mumbled Mr. Cameron as his fingers flew over the papers on his desk. There was no sign of hesitation or indecision on his face, suggesting he knew very well what he was looking for and where to find it. “Ah!” he exclaimed after barely a moment before he seated himself, his gaze focusing as he looked across his crammed desk at Pierce. “I received a letter regarding a Mr. Sparks.”

  Pierce’s insides contorted painfully as he all but held his breath.

  “Unfortunately,” Mr. Cameron continued, his small eyes blinking rapidly, revealing his own anxiety with the subject at hand, “I must inform you that he has passed on.”

  Exhaling, Pierce closed his eyes. “When?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “How?”

  Mr. Cameron sighed. “It doesn’t say.”

  Deep down, Pierce had known it would be Peter. It had to be for the doctors had told him year after year that he would not live much longer. It had to do with fluid collecting in his lungs. And yet, Peter had lived, year after year, defying their predictions, defying Fate. Pierce could not deny that a part of him had believed Peter would outlive him after all. “Can I see the letter?”

  “Certainly.”

  The handwriting was like the man himself, full of zest, charging ahead without thought before fatigue got the better of him, tripping him up and landing him head-first in the dirt.

  Pierce missed him.

  My dearest friend,

  We both knew this day would eventually come. If you’re reading this, then you know that Fate has finally caught up with me. I ran to the end of the world to escape it or at least prolong it, but I always knew that, at some point, it would catch up to me.

  But darn it, I lived!

  Pierce smiled as an image of his old friend drifted into his mind, his fist raised in resistance as he declared he would not lie down and die. He would live.

  And he had.

  He had lived and loved.

  What more could a man want?

  I have no regrets. But I would make a request of you, if you don’t mind? As though you could refuse a dead man, right?

  Unable not to, Pierce chuckled, dimly aware of Mr. Cameron’s brows drawing down in bewilderment.

  A fe
w years past, a sickness swept through our village. As though it was a sick twist of Fate, it left me alive, but claimed my darling wife instead as well as most of her family. The only one to survive was her little sister, Charlaine. You might remember her.

  Pierce swallowed, recalling the strong-headed, young girl with the chocolate-brown eyes. “Charlie,” he whispered, wondering what it had done to one so young to lose all she’d loved.

  She’s not yet twenty years of age and all alone in the world. These past few years, we’ve stuck together, she and I, but now I’m gone. I know she is strong and capable, a bit mule-headed, too, but she still needs someone even though she would never admit it. Would you look after her for me? There is nothing left here for her. I think a fresh start would do her good. Perhaps it can do for her what it did for me. I want her to be happy again.

  “How did you receive this letter?” Pierce asked, looking up at Mr. Cameron.

  The old man’s gaze dropped and, once more, he shuffled through some papers. “It was sent by a solicitor in Kingston.”

  Pierce inhaled a deep breath. “Write to him and have him make travel arrangements for a Miss Charlaine Palmer. Spare no expense.”

  Mr. Cameron nodded eagerly before reaching for a quill and quickly taking down some notes.

  Pierce returned his gaze to the letter in his hands.

  I want you to be happy as well, old friend. Don’t forget to think about yourself every once in a while! It does not take away from the good man that you are. I’m certain of that. Otherwise, I would not trust you with my darling Charlaine. Remember that when she drives you mad with her opinions. Believe me, she’s got quite a few!

  Farewell, my friend. I shall await you no matter where I end up. You decide if that’s a threat or a promise!

  Peter

  Postscript: Don’t forget to lock the windows. She’s a bit spirited, mind you. Good luck!

  Pierce’s shoulders shook as he tried to contain the laughter. Oh, he’d missed Peter! The man was a breath of fresh air. No one knew how to rouse a man’s spirits better than him, and Pierce wished he could have seen him one last time.