The Theft Before Christmas

by Cheryl Bolen

  As the three of them rode in said fine coach, with Daphne snuggling against Jack for warmth, her gaze flicked to Sir Ronald, who sat across from them. “Where are Mr. Strickland’s lodgings?” If he lived in gentlemen’s rooms, she worried that she would not be admitted.

  “Lord Harvane confessed that until this week, Strickland had been a bit down on his luck. He said Strickland has been living in a not-very-good-quality rooming house in Bloomsbury."

  On today’s busy streets it could take them rather a long time to reach the man’s lodging. “Will we be driving near St. James?” she asked. Her sense of direction, lamentably, was as poor as her sense of sight and unlike the latter, was uncorrectable.

  “Close,” Sir Ronald said. “Why do you ask? Should you like to go there?”

  She and Jack turned toward each other at once. She shrugged.

  Jack said, “I believe I fancy some hot chestnuts.”

  Sir Ronald gave them a quizzing look. “I daresay you can find them on any corner. Why St. James?”

  She eyed her brother-in-law. He looked like the perfectly groomed man he always appeared to be. Every blond hair on his head was in place with such perfection it looked as if he could be wearing a wig. She was unable to observe his clothing because it was covered with a great coat. A great coat of very fine quality. She was able to observe the shiny black Hessians he wore. His valet must have spent hours to bring them to such a shine. She wondered if—like Brummell's valet—he used champagne on them. “Did we not tell you Andy was watching Harriette Wilson’s house?”

  Sir Ronald looked even more perplexed. “Andy?”

  Daphne frowned. They had told the baronet earlier about Andy’s surveillance. “Our young coachman.”

  “Oh, yes. He’s watching Harriette Wilson's?”

  She nodded.

  “I thought,” Jack said, “that if I stopped to buy nuts from the lad, he could let us know if he’s seen anything of interest.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. Remember, most people not born to the servants’ class are still in their beds fast asleep.”

  She knew Sir Ronald was likely right, but she liked to be optimistic. “I hope Andy’s nowhere to be found for that would mean- -“

  “That he was following a potential lead,” the baronet said.

  She met his smug gaze. “Exactly.”

  Sir Ronald got his coachman's attention and requested that he take them first to St. James Street. The luxurious coach was fitted with blinds, which were open to allow some brightness in on so dreary a day.

  “Oh, look!” Daphne was thrilled to see the season’s first snow. “It’s snowing.”

  “By Jove, it is,” Jack said. “Perhaps we could pray for a jolly good snowstorm that might prevent the King of Spain from arriving in the Capital.”

  She glared at her husband. “Such a storm could prevent us from reaching Addersley Priory, too. And I shouldn’t like that at all.”

  Jack gave her hand a sympathetic look and very firm squeeze.

  “Once we’re at Addersley, though,” Sir Ronald added, “it can snow away—much to our children’s delight.”

  “Oh yes,” Daphne agreed. “Those sleigh rides are ever so much fun.” She snuggled even closer. “It will be so romantic, my darling. You and I cuddling beneath the rug as our sleigh crosses the frozen earth beneath tree branches heavy with fluffy white snow.”

  "The effect is vastly different than in London where the splat of snow on the filthy pavement is anything but romantic." Jack peered at the splattering of snow on the streets beneath their coach wheels where it turned into a murky liquid.

  Within a few minutes they were on St. James. Jack peered from the window on the right, Daphne on the left. Disappointingly, Andy was there on the corner that provided the best view of Harriette Wilson's house. "He's there," Jack said.

  Sir Ronald alerted the coachman to stop in front of the chestnut seller, and when he did, Jack said, "I suppose, Sir Ronald, it would be best if you speak with Andy. I could be recognized by Miss Wilson, if she happened to be peering from a window.

  Daphne watched as Sir Ronald strolled over and asked for a handful of chestnuts. As Andy looked up, his gaze connected with Daphne's, and he smiled, then gave Sir Ronald his complete attention. While Andy prepared the nuts, he and the baronet—who was no stranger to him—talked.

  When Sir Ronald returned to the coach a moment later—with chestnuts for all of them—he said Andy reported that no one had either left or come to the front door as he watched. He also said he kept an eye on each alleyway entrance to see if any tradesmen had business at the courtesan's 'ouse. Obviously Andy was pleased to have added a new word to his vocabulary.

  Daphne frowned. "I'm disappointed, but as you say, it was to be expected this early in the day."

  "It was good of you to get him there early," Sir Ronald said. "Have you thought how you will manage to watch the house tonight?"

  "I believe my wife's hopes are pinned on Strickland."

  She nodded. "I cannot help it. I'm optimistic. Since we've got less than four and twenty hours, we need Mr. Strickland's cooperation. We shall appeal to his patriotism, even though I'm ever so fearful that he's made a pact with the devil."

  Sir Ronald raised a single brow in query.

  "We believe d'Arblier may be behind the theft," Jack said.

  "I see," Sir Ronald said with a nod. "It does make perfect sense that a snake like the duc d'Arblier would mastermind something of this nature to destroy our alliance with the Spanish." That Sir Ronald was something big in the Foreign Office was another very good reason why she and Jack trusted him and counted upon his integrity.

  During the ride to Bloomsbury, Daphne peered from the coach window. While not many from her class were out and about at this time of day, tradesmen were clogging the streets with huge conveyances. It took six strong horses to pull a wagon of Swedish turnips, and another was delivering ale throughout the Capital. More large wagons pulled by six stout horses carried building supplies: huge blocks of stone, stacks of wood, and bricks. Then there were the smaller rigs. They passed many donkey carts and several cabriolets driven by men who were better dressed.

  She was so amused watching the great assortment of workers, she hadn't realized they had crossed much of London's West End when their carriage came to a stop, and the coachman came to open their door.

  "We're here already?"

  "My dear wife, it has taken us nearly an hour to get here."

  "Well, we did have one stop." She looked up at the row of terraced houses. The one they were in front of was constructed of red brick and rose to five stories. Its white front door was badly in need of a fresh coat of paint.

  One look at the place convinced her she would have no problem being allowed into Mr. Strickland's rooms. If there should be any problem (But who would raise a brow at a well-dressed lady accompanied by two well-dressed men this early in the day?), she could always pull out the key that never failed to open doors: her title. It was really quite amazing how the English populace fawned over aristocrats.

  "He's on the top floor. Number 8," Sir Ronald said.

  The front door was not locked. Even so, Sir Ronald stood there and rapped at it. He waited a moment, but when no one answered, he opened the door, and the three of them began to mount the stairs. No one questioned their right to be there.

  She was rather breathless by the time they reached the top floor. There were two sets of chambers there, and Number 8 was to their right. Sir Ronald knocked upon the door. "I daresay, the man's still asleep," he whispered.

  "No need to whisper. It's our desire to wake him." She spoke in an elevated voice.

  The second time, Sir Ronald rapped louder. Still, there was no answer.

  "The man is either very hard to wake, or he's not here," Jack said.

  "Or he's afraid we're creditors, and he's ignoring us." She moved to the door and twisted at the knob. To her surprise, it opened.

  Jack swept past her. "I go fir
st."

  He didn't have to finish. She knew he meant, in case there's trouble. She dropped back and allowed him to enter first, then Sir Ronald came next.

  Before her foot crossed the threshold, Jack called out. "Don't let Daphne in!"

  She might not yet be in the chamber, but she could see it looked as if a cyclone had torn through there. "My darling, I don't care if it's messy."

  Sir Ronald winced noticeably, then whirled back to her, shaking his head. "You cannot go in there."

  Her gaze flicked to her incredibly somber husband. "Strickland's been murdered."

  Chapter 6

  "Do you think Lady Daphne and the captain have gone off to Carlton House this morning?" Miss Huntington asked the colonel.

  "I couldn't say." He shook his head in a most morose fashion. "I still cannot credit it. Captain Dryden can't be capable of doing something dishonorable, yet I have complete confidence that a level-headed young woman like you knows what she overheard."

  "Where shall we begin?" she asked, her voice forlorn.

  While he was truly flattered by the girl's faith in his abilities, he did not like to do anything that might blacken her name. Like riding in his coach with him without a proper chaperone. Yet he could not allow her to be embroiled in whatever it was the Drydens were up to, either. He would not allow her to return to their house.

  He felt as long as they just stood there facing one another in the foyer of his house, he was conducting himself in a gentlemanly fashion. Should he ask her to come sit in his morning room? Not to do so might make the poor lady think her presence was not welcome.

  He cleared his throat. "Pray, Miss Huntington, why do we not go into the morning room?" Never liking to turn his back on a lady, he waved her in, then followed.

  His first image of her sitting in this very room the day before was stamped upon his brain as indelibly as his sainted mother's face. He had been so stricken by her youthfulness and by the fact there was no companion for propriety's sake. She had immediately elicited in him a need to protect her. He not only wanted to protect her physically—as a man should do—but he also wanted to ensure that no scandal ever attached to her name.

  She was such an appealing little thing.

  In some ways it seemed incomprehensible that their introduction to one another in this chamber had occurred just the previous day. The many hours they had spent in each other's company since bound them like old friends.

  When she sat in the same chair in which she had first sat, his breath unaccountably hitched. He came to sit opposite her and was suddenly struck by her. . .loveliness. He had not previously noticed her eyes were as blue as the Aegean. "It's too late for us to follow them, you know," he said.

  She nodded. "And London's too vast. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack."

  "Do you have any reason to believe they were going to Carlton House today?"

  "Everything I know I've already told you."

  "Since we have no idea where they were going, the only thing I know to do is go to Carlton House ourselves. Would you be able to identify Sir Ronald's coach if it were to be waiting near the Regent's house?"

  "I think so. It was most definitely a cut above most others, and it looked as if it had just been polished. There wasn't so much as a speck of dust on it."

  He sighed. "If it's there, then it would be imperative that we gain admission, which may not be easy. Carlton House is as fortified as Dover Castle."

  Her gaze swept over his traveling clothes. "Perhaps if you were in uniform. . ."

  He nodded thoughtfully. "I can't very well say I'm there on official business. . ."

  "Is there a chance any of the guards might know you?"

  "Of course. Many of them have served under me."

  "Then you simply project your commanding persona."

  What a jewel this lady was. She was possessed of a brain. She did not giggle. And she had full confidence in his capabilities.

  He only wished he were worthy of her confidence.

  He finally nodded. "On your recommendation, I believe I shall dress in my full dress uniform, but what are we to do with you?"

  "Oh, I must come."

  "To Carlton House?"

  "Yes."

  "How would that look?"

  "Not as bad as me being here in your house."

  The very idea of being alone with this girl he so admired suddenly made him excessively uncomfortable. "I can't very well send you back to the Drydens . . ."

  She shook her head. "No. I am far too disturbed, too distrustful of them at present."

  "And your parents are so far away. . . How could we possibly explain you coming to Carlton House?"

  "A man in command does not have to answer to anyone."

  He gave her a long, thoughtful look. "How is it you know so much about the military?"

  She shrugged. "Mama says I'm entirely too precocious."

  He stood. "Your mother is right."

  "Will you dress now?"

  "Yes." He started to walk away, then turned back. "Blue is most becoming on you." Why had he blurted out such a stupid observation?

  * * *

  Daphne heard Sir Ronald's voice. "Don't worry, Dryden. She's just fainted. She'll be fine." It seemed almost as if the words were coming from the bottom of a deep well.

  "My wife's not the fainting type."

  Jack! She opened her eyes.

  "See, old chap? I told you she'd be all right."

  The last thing she remembered was standing at the threshold of Mr. Strickland's chambers. . . and Jack told her he'd been murdered. Like an idiot, she'd gone barreling into the horridly messy room. . . and then she saw all that blood. The very memory of that massive amount of blood had her feeling queasy all over again.

  She lifted her head and found herself staring into dear Jack's concerned face. "Did I faint?"

  He stroked her cheek tenderly as he nodded. "I was unaware that my brave wife would faint at the sight of blood."

  It was no needle prick of blood. It was . . . oh, she couldn’t think of it, or she'd be casting up her accounts. She held up her hand. "Please, no talk of blood. It was vastly disturbing."

  Her gaze swept to her surroundings. "Where are we?" They were in a tiny but neat little parlor. Definitely not fine enough for Sir Ronald's extravagant taste. She was lying upon a sofa covered in cheap bombazine.

  "We took a chamber at a small hotel near Strickland's in Bloomsbury. Your husband was beside himself with worry when you were so unresponsive, and I thought it best to get you comfortable as quickly as possible."

  "I'm ever so sorry to be so much trouble." She gazed at her husband. "Was his throat cut?"

  Both men solemnly nodded. "The magistrate came quickly, but of course, there's nothing anyone can do now."

  She bolted up. "It must be the work of the duc." Jack had been right from the start to have believed the duc d'Arblier was behind this heinous crime.

  “Slashed throats are like his calling card.” Jack shook his head. "Strickland's death makes it impossible for us to find the Michelangelo before King Carlos comes."

  "The duc must have realized that he could no longer manipulate Strickland and didn't trust him not to lead us to the Michelangelo." She looked from Jack to Sir Ronald. "Dear God, there must be something we can do."

  From their somber faces, she knew they had been defeated. "But we know Strickland did not leave the chamber with the Michelangelo."

  "Can we be sure?" Sir Ronald asked.

  Jack turned to him. "He could hardly have concealed it on his person. It was far too large to tuck into his breeches, and all the men there that night—according to the Regent—were dressed in court dress, so it was definitely breeches. And besides, every person in that chamber was thoroughly checked before they were permitted to leave."

  Sir Ronald's face brightened. "And the women were in court dress, too?"

  "I'd already asked that question," Daphne said. "All the women were dressed in the curren
t fashion."

  His face fell. "Then I daresay there was no way any of them could have concealed the Madonna and Child."

  "And we tried to determine if there was some place in the Regent's saloon where the Michelangelo could have been concealed when Miss Wilson provided her diversion," Daphne said. "But we found nothing."

  Jack sighed. "We shall have to return to Carlton House. There must be something we've overlooked." His soft gaze brushed over her like the whisper of a kiss. "Do you feel well enough to come, love?"

  His current state of husbandly concern reminded her of how wonderful he'd been on their aborted honeymoon when she had become so wretchedly sick on the channel crossing. Both directions.

  Everyone, including her very own husband, had difficulty believing a strong-willed, capable, otherwise healthy woman like Lord Sidworth's firstborn daughter could possibly have a weak stomach.

  Her dearest Jack was given to thinking a terrible malady had stricken her each time her belly betrayed her steadfastness.

  "I could do a Highland fling." She got to her feet and twirled around. Which wasn't such a good idea after all. Her stomach was still a bit unsettled. She supposed it was because she couldn't quite suppress the vision of all that blood. No matter how much she tried.

  "A walk on your own two feet will be most satisfactory, my vixen. I don't want to have to carry you up three flights of stairs again."

  * * *

  Even without being presented with a royal summons, the soldiers easily recognized Jack and Sir Ronald and admitted them to Carlton House.

  "His Royal Highness is in the Blue Room," a nice looking Life Guard told them when they reached the staircase. That was the room where Jack had first become acquainted with the Prince Regent.

  Jack turned to his wife. "I'm thankful I don't have to lug you up all those stairs." Then the three of them began to mount one of a pair of symmetrical curving staircases that dominated the opulent entry hall.

  In the Blue Room, more than twenty people were assembled, and the Regent was actually strolling around the chamber talking to them. Jack was a bit surprised because the man was so famously indolent that he seldom allowed his legs to carry him.