“Jules is a dangerous woman.”
Grant’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like Felix referring to his Juliet by a pet name.
Almost as much as he didn’t like thinking of her as ‘his’ Juliet.
She wasn’t his. She never had been his, and there was not any scenario where she ever would be his. Even if she wasn’t a thief and he wasn’t a runner, there were simply too many obstacles in their path. They were from two completely different worlds. Worlds that were separate for a reason. While Grant did not consider himself an elitist, he could not imagine ever introducing Juliet to his parents. When he married – if he married – he would not need their approval, of course, but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t something he wanted.
He could just see it now…the entire family on holiday in the country, his brothers playing a rousing game of shuttlecock, his sister-in-law’s attending the children, his parents relaxing on the portico, and Juliet skulking about upstairs stealing the silver.
“Ye aren’t going to let this go, are ye?” Felix said as he studied Grant’s countenance.
“Have I ever let a criminal go before?” he said shortly.
“No, I suppose not.” There was a gleam in Felix’s eye that he couldn’t quite read. The gleam deepened when Felix said, “If ye have any chance of tracking Jules down, you’ll need to find Bran first.”
“Bran?” Grant’s brows drew together over the bridge of his nose. “Who the devil is Bran?”
“You’re the runner.” Felix lifted two fingers to his temple in a cheeky salute before he patted Mrs. Wadsworth on her head and opened the door. “You figure it out.”
Chapter Nineteen
“No,” Bran said flatly. “Absolutely not.”
Juliet rolled her eyes as she picked up her jewelry box and fished around the various glittering baubles – all stolen – before settling on a pair of pearl earrings. They weren’t particularly flashy but they were large, and nothing said understated elegance (or wealth) like pearls. Sliding them into her ears, she piled her hair on top of her head and turned her face this way and that, studying the effect the earrings had on her profile in the mirror’s silvery reflection.
They’d do, she thought with a satisfied curve of her lips. But Bran’s bossiness certainly wouldn’t.
“I don’t need your permission, you know.” She met his gaze in the mirror. “You’re not my keeper.”
“Well someone should be,” he snapped, the corners of his mouth tightening. “I thought ye were supposed to be in hiding.”
“I was in hiding,” she corrected as she selected a matching pearl choker and looped it around her neck, biting the inside of her cheek as she struggled with the tiny clasp. “For the better part of a year. Bugger it. Why the devil can’t they make these easier to – ah. Got it.”
“Is tha’ Lady Flintlock’s necklace?”
“Maybe.”
“I didn’t know ye were the one who snatched it,” Bran said, sounding impressed despite his anger at what he deemed ‘a bloody suicide mission’.
With only one week to go until the dowager’s ball, Juliet was determined to secure herself an invitation. Unfortunately, stealing one hadn’t been as easy as she’d anticipated. It seemed the ladies of the ton valued their social standing more than their jewelry, and the silly nits had been sleeping with their invitations tucked beneath their pillows, making them all but impossible to snatch. Which meant she was going to have to get her invitation the hard way.
“There’s plenty of things you don’t know about me,” she said loftily.
“Aye,” Bran acknowledged. “Including how the ‘ell ye are going to pull this off. Runners and peelers are going to swarming all over the place.”
“It’s a garden soiree, not a hornet’s nest. I’m going to sneak in, charm the dowager into giving me an invitation to her ball, and sneak back out again before anyone is the wiser. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Oh, I dunno.” Bran tapped his chin. “How about bloody everything? This is High Society we’re talkin’ about, Jules. It’s an entirely different beast.”
“Are you saying I’m not going to fit in?” Turning away from the mirror, she lifted her skirts and did a quick spin. “Because I think I look splendid.”
The dress she’d paid an exorbitant fortune to have finished in less than twenty-four hours was a light, frothy concoction of pale green muslin overlaid with a sheer layer of white silk threaded with gold. The capped sleeves showed off her slender arms while the dropped bodice revealed a tasteful amount of bosom. She’d fashioned her long auburn curls into a braided twist on top of her head and secured the style with a jeweled hair comb in the shape of a butterfly. Several tendrils trailed down along the side of her face and neck, accentuating the delicate curve of her jaw. She knew she’d never looked better, just as she knew that no one who saw her at the soiree would think her out of place.
Juliet may not have been born a lady, but she had no difficulty imitating one. As far as she was concerned a donkey in a dress could do it. The genteel nobility may have thought themselves far superior to the common born man, but the truth of the matter was that beneath their expensive gowns and clouds of perfume and fake laughter they were just like everyone else.
Bran gritted his teeth. “I’m not going to fill yer head with flattery. Ye know ye look the part and aye, that tiara is as fine a piece as there’s ever been, but is it worth getting’ yerself strung up by the neck for? What if The Wolf is there?”
“He won’t be,” she said confidently.
“And how do ye know that?”
“Because.” Returning to the mirror, she used her pinky finger to dab a tiny bit of beeswax colored with crushed rose petals across her lips. “He’s going to think I’m somewhere else.”
There was only one way to walk into St Giles.
With confidence.
A swagger in his stride and a hand on the pistol at his hip, Grant sauntered bold-as-you-please up High Street, the main thoroughfare that ran straight down the middle of London’s most treacherous rookery. It was the middle of the afternoon and the morning rains had finally abated, leaving behind a cloudy, nondescript gray sky. Such was spring in England; an unpleasant mix of wet and fog with the occasional glimmer of sunlight.
If he were in Berkley Square the streets would have been bustling with activity. Merchants selling their wares. Ladies out for their daily constitutionals. Flustered nannies chasing after energetic children. But in St Giles it was eerily quiet, and save for the occasional drunk sprawled on a stoop, passerby were few and far between.
He caught more than one shutter being snapped closed as he strolled along High Street, and knew that word had already gotten out that a runner was patrolling the rookeries. Which most likely explained St Giles’ ghostlike appearance. Well, that and the fact that in this part of London the days were for sleeping off the sins of the night before.
Here the streets were not paved in gold but in shite, but horse and human. All matter of refuse littered the ground, from broken gin bottles to slop buckets. The tenements were so close together it was difficult to tell one from the next, and they were in such poor condition it was a wonder they remained standing.
It was hard for him to imagine Juliet living in such a place. Harder still for him to know that she’d grown up here. Was it any wonder she’d turned to a life of crime? As she herself had said, there were limited options for a woman living in such abject poverty. And surely it was better for her to be a thief than a whore. At the mere thought of her being forced to service strangers who only saw her as a piece of flesh his jaw clenched and his hands curled into fists. He would never wish such a life upon any woman, but particularly not Juliet. She was too proud. Too wild. Too untamed. Being forced into prostitution would kill her spirit as surely as it would eventually kill her body.
And what do you think imprisonment will do? An unwanted voice whispered in the back of his mind. She might be strong for a week, a month, mayhap even a year. But eventuall
y that proud spirit of hers will crack, and then it will crumble, and then it will shatter.
What happened to Juliet after he turned her over to the higher authorities was outside of his control. The magistrate was a hard but fair man. He would see her duly punished, but not excessively so. After three years, maybe two with good behavior, she would be released.
Unless he decided to make an example of her.
Juliet had stolen from some of the ton’s most powerful and influential members. They would not be satisfied with an inconsequential prison sentence. More than a few might even call for her execution.
The air inside of Grant’s lungs turned cold as he imagined her standing atop the gallows, her hands bound behind her back and her green eyes bright with defiance. He knew that whatever happened to her would be justice as described under English law, and he’d never concerned himself with the fate of criminals before. But then he’d never encountered a criminal quite like Juliet.
Whether he liked it or not, whether he admitted it or not, he did care what happened to her. He cared very deeply. But how could he reconcile his personal feelings with his sworn duty to crown and country? Unlike Felix, he wasn’t a man who danced around the edges of the law. He was the law.
Or at least he had been before a red-haired hellion turned his life upside down.
“Lookin’ fer someone, lovie?” A buxom brunette scantily clad in a silk dressing robe appeared in a narrow doorway and sauntered slowly down the steps, ample hips swaying with every stride. “For a pretty price I can be anyone ye fancy,” she purred, pressing herself against Grant like a cat in heat. “A high flyin’ duchess. A virgin milkmaid. A–”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said firmly, catching her wrist just in time to stop her from groping his bollocks. “Although I am looking for someone. A thief.”
With a long, exaggerated sigh the whore crossed her arms and sat back on her heels. “Thieves are a dime a dozen here, lovie.”
“Not female thieves with red hair and green eyes.” He studied the brunette’s countenance carefully, searching for a glimmer of recognition. An anonymous note received early this morning had said the jewel thief The Wolf was hunting had recently been spotted in St Giles trying to sell a necklace. One that, coincidentally enough, matched the description of the necklace that had gone missing from Lady Ashburn’s bedchamber.
While Grant had reason to doubt the note’s authenticity, it was the only lead he had. Tracking down Bran had proved as impossible as finding Juliet, and Felix, turncoat bastard that he was, had refused to give him any more information. Although to be fair he’d been rather busy as of late after the woman he was courting, Miss Felicity Atwood, had been kidnapped by her ex-husband.
She’d since been safely recovered and the two were due to be married this very afternoon in the same church where Owen and his wife had said their vows. Every runner was expected to attend. Grant should have been getting ready, but the possibility of finding Juliet had taken precedence.
“I might’ve seen someone like that.” The brunette pursed her lips. “But I can’t seem to remember…”
“Does this jog your memory?” he said dryly, pulling a pouch out of his jacket and giving it a small shake. The coins inside jingled merrily, and the prostitute all but licked her voluptuous lips.
“Ye know, I think it just might.” She held out her palm. Wiggled her fingers. After a moment’s hesitation Grant gave her the pouch, and the ten shillings contained within.
“Well?” he said as she dumped the shillings into her hand and counted them with the feverish excitement of a squirrel counting acorns. “Have you seen her or not?”
“I’ve seen ‘er all right.” She tossed back her head. “She walked right past here no more ‘n ten minutes ago. Lookin’ pleased as piss, Jules was. Must’ve had a good take to turn in.”
Ten minutes.
He was only ten minutes behind her.
“Where was she going?” he asked tersely.
The brunette tapped the side of her cheek. “Let me see if I can remember…”
“Here’s another ten shillings.” Emptying his pockets, he all but threw the money at her. “And there’s five more pounds in it for you if she is where you say she is.”
“Ginny’s Antiquities on the corner of Fleet and West Broad. If she ain’t sold ‘er piece yet, that’s where she’ll be. Oy!” the whore called out when he turned and started to walk briskly away. “How will ye find me again?”
Irritation rippling through him at the delay, Grant nevertheless stopped short. “What’s your name?”
“Samantha. But all me friends call me Sam.” For some reason she found that highly amusing, for her lips pulled back and she let out a peal of laughter. “Good luck, runner.” She waited until Grant was out earshot to mutter under her breath, “You’re going to bloody well need it.”
While Grant was tearing St Giles apart, Juliet was having a splendid time drinking tea and dining on crumpets drizzled in the sweetest honey she’d ever tasted. It melted on her tongue and she made certain to wrap up several of the crumpets in a silk napkin to save for Sam. Her friend had a dire sweet tooth, and even though she had refused payment for helping to send Grant on a merry goose chase, Juliet knew she would appreciate the crumpets nevertheless.
Beneath the large white tents that had been erected in the middle of the Countess of Swarthmore’s extensive rose gardens, women dressed in pastel gowns and bonnets adorned with flowers gossiped and giggled while servants milled about carrying large silver trays filled with all manner of sugary delicacies. Juliet had eaten so much she had a stomach ache. To her mind it was a small price to pay.
She’d been at the garden soiree for less than two hours, but she had used every minute of time to her advantage. Getting in hadn’t been nearly as difficult as Bran had feared. As it turned out, a contingent of American heiresses were in attendance, and everyone simply assumed she was with them. Once she was inside she’d made quick work of charming the Dowager Duchess of Glastonbury.
From her aristocratic bearing and piercing blue eyes, it became readily apparent that the dowager did not suffer fools lightly, and so Juliet had done what she never did at events such as these: she acted like herself.
Much the amazement of the dowager’s devoted lady’s maid, a tiny whip of a thing who had the bulging eyes of a terrified rabbit, Juliet’s wry observations of the other guests soon had the dowager in stitches of laughter. When she’d noted that their hostess resembled a flamingo in her bright pink wrap and black hat, the elderly woman had nearly tipped out of her chair.
“You’re very fresh,” the dowager said as she snapped at her maid to hand over one of the last remaining invitations from a heavy wicker basket the poor thing had been carrying around since the soiree began. “I like young ladies who speak their mind. Not enough of them left, in my opinion. You will attend my ball on the third.”
It was more of a direct order than a question, but one Juliet was only too happy to accept.
“What do we have, if not our opinions?” She saw more than one head swivel and turn green with envy as she graciously accepted the heavy envelope with a ladylike curtsy and tucked it away inside of her reticule.
There, she thought with a triumphant grin she expertly hid behind a coy little smile. That was bloody easy.
“I would be honored to attend your ball, Your Grace.”
“Of course you would,” the dowager said with a sniff. “It’s the event of the Season, you know.”
“So I have heard,” Juliet murmured politely.
“Do you like jewelry?” Those crafty blue eyes zeroed in on her pearl necklace. “I can see you have excellent taste. Too often the jewelry wears the woman instead of the other way around. I’ll have several pearl pieces on display. Including a bouton pearl and amethyst bracelet that would suit you splendidly. You have small wrists,” the dowager said with an approving nod. “A true mark of a lady.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. You are v
ery kind.”
The dowager snorted. “I’m many things, but kind isn’t one of them.”
“You’re right,” Juliet said easily. “You’re not very kind at all. Were this a medieval tale you would be the dragon breathing fire at the gate instead of the fair princess locked away in a tower.”
The maid gasped. The dowager’s mouth pinched. Just as Juliet was beginning to wonder if she’d taken things a bit too far, the old woman’s face stretched into a broad smile and she chortled so loudly that a passing servant nearly dropped his tray.
“Go on then,” she said, gesturing Juliet away with a broad sweep of her arm as she dabbed at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. “Go enjoy yourself before you send me into an apoplectic fit. I have decided I am going to die after my auction, not before, and an impertinent chit is not going to change that.”
Impertinent chit. Juliet rather liked that.
“As you wish, Your Grace.” After another curtsy she stepped back into the crowd, deciding that she’d just about overstayed her welcome. But on her way out of the garden she was stopped by a petite blonde who looked to be in her early fifties. The woman was very pretty for her age, and despite the smile lines at the edges of her mouth and the delicate webbing in the corners of her gray eyes, she exuded a bright, youthful energy. There was something vaguely familiar about her, although Juliet was almost certain they’d never met before.
“The Dowager Duchess seems quite taken with you,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve known Dorothea for nearly a decade, and I’ve never heard her laugh, let alone laugh so hard she nearly fell out of her chair! Well done, Lady…”
“Miss Williams.” The surname was so common that people often had a hard time remembering it, which was why Juliet used it more often than not.
“Miss Williams,” the older woman said warmly. “What a pleasure to meet you. I am Caroline Hargrave.” Seeing the flicker of shock on Juliet’s face, Caroline sighed and said, “Please, you do not have to call me–”
A Dangerous Affair (Bow Street Brides Book 3) Page 16
