Thief Taker

by Camille Oster

  Reaching his hand up, he touched his the rim of his hat in a little salute, acknowledging her presence, but she refused to acknowledge him back. Sharply drawing the curtains, she blocked him out. Her heart was still beating rapidly and she desperately wanted to peek around the curtains to see if he was still there. Surely he couldn't stay all night. There was something very disturbing about having a man out there while she slept—waiting for her.

  Serephina rushed to the window the moment she woke, searching the street to see if the vexatious Mr. Cox was there, but there was no sign of him. With a firm sigh of relief, she also noted that the fog had lifted. It wasn't entirely gone, but it seemed like it would develop into a nice day, which meant it was likely quite windy outside—better wind than fog.

  Her thoughts were still on that infernal man as she dressed and went down to the dining room for breakfast. Mrs. Rushmore hadn't risen yet, so Serephina waited. Millie tended to rise in her own time, preferring the comforts of her bedroom in the mornings.

  Sitting in the dining room, she crossed her legs and wondered what she was going to do. There was badness in every direction she could make out, but one of them gave Millie a chance and the other put her amongst the vast number of impoverished girls with nothing to offer on the marriage market other than a pretty face and a bleak future. Although most young men would choose a pretty face if given the choice, they were expected to enhance their family fortunes. But saving Millie would mean tangling with the indomitable Mr. Cox.

  "There you are, dear. You needn't have waited."

  Serephina smiled as Mrs. Rushmore rang the bell informing Cook that they were ready—who had obviously been waiting for them as she appeared as soon as the bell reached the table.

  "Miss Millie still hasn't risen?" Cook said, but wasn't surprised. "I will take a tray to her room. The smell of bacon tends to pry her eyelids open." The stout woman placed the breakfast tray on the table and wiped her hands on her apron. Cook, or Mrs. Doris Merry as she was really called, was also a widow and had only been with them a few months. She'd come without references and Serephina had taken a risk hiring her—one that had proved justified. House staff without reference were just as badly placed as well-bred girls without dowries. Having been confronted with Mrs. Merry's pleading application, Serephina couldn't let another person sink down undefended into the quagmire of London's poorest streets.

  Cook marched off to tangle with Millie, who lacked her naturally charm first thing in the morning.

  "It seems I have attracted the attention of a man," Serephina said once they were alone.

  "Oh?" Mrs. Rushmore said, misunderstanding.

  "A policeman," Serephina said and Mrs. Rushmore's eyebrows pulled together sharply. "He watches the house. It was the reason Turner wanted to see me—to warn me of this man. I just wanted you to be aware as he seems to have taken on a habit of watching the house."

  "You are not to speak to him."

  "I'm not exactly rushing out to greet him."

  "This is vexing," Mrs. Rushmore said, looking worried. "We have to be more careful. I think it is best that you keep from running off to the East End. I will deal with Turner." Mrs. Rushmore smiled. "Don't worry, we will deal with this man, but we need to be very careful."

  "I suppose it was only a matter of time until they noticed what I'm doing."

  "It won't last much longer."

  Mary appeared at the door, cutting any further discussion off. "Some cards have been dropped off."

  "Bring them here," Mrs. Rushmore said, taking the cards and considering them. "Who in the world are Mr. Stephen Forth and Mr. Vincent Marsh?"

  Serephina blinked, trying to think, until it registered with her. "Oh, Mr. Marsh was the man in Hyde Park, on skates. The other must be his friend. They are coming to call?"

  "Today."

  "Right," Serephina said, dumbfounded. She hadn't expected to see him again, but he had asked if he could call, and apparently he'd meant it. Someone was coming to call on her. It wasn't an everyday occurrence and she was quietly excited about it.

  "They seemed decent enough chaps," Mrs. Rushmore said. "Any potential there?"

  "I am not sure about the first, but the other is set on traveling."

  Mrs. Rushmore harrumphed in disapproval. A young man who wasn't intent on marrying was just a waste of time in her book. Serephina expected Mrs. Rushmore wondered why they'd waste good tea on a man like that.

  Sitting in the parlor, they waited patiently for their callers to arrive. Millie paced around the room and Seraphina knew she wasn't entirely excited about this visit. Millie's interest was firmly with Captain Heresworth, but she couldn't be rude when someone had indicated their intent to call. Being neither engaged nor married, she couldn't decline.

  The bell on the door indicated their arrival and Mary let them in. They appeared in the doorway, looking dashing, even to the point where Millie was curious.

  Vincent smiled at Serephina and they introduced themselves. "We'd thought we'd take a turn around Hyde Park, considering the sun is shining for once. It feels like one has been cooped up for ages," Mr. Forth said. "And why not ask the prettiest girls in all of London to join us?" Serephina couldn't help smile at the blatant compliment. He seemed like such a good-natured young man, with clear eyes and a bright smile. Some mother would be very proud of him.

  "What an excellent idea," Mrs. Rushmore said. "One must take these opportunities when they present themselves. Do you not think, girls?"

  "Of course," Millie said, her enthusiasm for this visit finally having arrived, brought on by Mr. Marsh's sheer handsomeness and forthright spirit. "We'll get our coats."

  "A bit of exercise does a soul good," Mrs. Rushmore said and rose.

  After donning their jackets and gloves, they stepped out into the street and Serephina took Vincent Marsh's arm. "How are your travel plans coming along?"

  "I leave in ten days," he said, beaming. His excitement was barely contained and Serephina felt a stab of envy.

  "That is exciting news. Which way shall you travel?"

  "I shall travel over Europe, through France, Italy and Greece."

  "That sounds so very exciting," Serephina said, imagining the sights he'd see. "They say the Mediterranean is like the hottest summer's day."

  "My skin will likely go bright red in all that sun."

  "You will have to remember to wear your hat."

  Vincent continued to talk about his plans, while Millis and Mr. Forth walked at a sedate pace ahead of them. They weren't the only people taking exercise in the park that day as everyone sought sun and movement after long days of gray, cold fog.

  Serephina breathed in the smell of the slightly fresher air of the park, feeling the joy of just being a young woman with nothing to worry about other than engaging in light conversation. That was how things should be, could have been if things hadn't gone wrong. The thought of her father and all the suffering he endured flicked into her mind. It was suffering he'd brought on himself, and to them in turn. For all his lack of foresight and propensity to act in their best interest, she still loved him, and had sympathized with his relentless unhappiness.

  Turning her gaze up from the gravel of the walkway, she almost missed a step when she saw him sitting on a bench, his ankle crossed over his knee and his arms out along the back of the bench. He was here—Mr. Cox. How could he be there? It could not have been a coincidence. He was following her on her walk around the park. This was too much, she thought—fuming.

  He nodded slightly as they passed just like anyone would do, and no one noticed anything out of place—he was just some man sitting on the bench in the park. But Serephina noted the slightly raised eyebrow as they passed. Was he challenging her? He was certainly letting his presence be known, like he was trying to tell her that there was nowhere she could go that he couldn't see.

  Arrogant man, she thought. He could not harass her like this. Irrespective of the fact that she was actually guilty of what he insinuated, he had n
o proof and was harassing her based on his presumption. He could have drawn completely the wrong conclusion and she could have been some innocent party, confused beyond reason at his insistence of placing himself in her life.

  If her mind hadn't been made up before, it certainly was now. She would continue her activities and he could harass her all he wanted. Try as he might, he would never get her; she would make sure of it—even if he set up camp in front of her door.

  What she knew and he didn't, was the layout of her own roof, and the window that couldn't be seen from the street or from the back, which gave her the ability to come and go without him noticing. She hadn't actually used it before, but she knew it was there, attached to the house's attic. He had to actually be on the roof across the street to see it, and that would be on a clear night.

  Looking back, she saw him, still on the bench, looking back at her, placing a match or straw in his mouth and getting up like his mission had been accomplished.

  Chapter 12:

  * * *

  She'd struck again and he'd received a terse note from Lord Stansom when he'd arrived at his desk. Anger boiled under his skin. He'd found her, but he was yet unable to stop her and she'd modulated her behavior, making it hard to pin her down. Somehow she had struck under his very nose. He didn't know how and for a moment he'd had to reconsider whether she really was the thief—but he knew in his bones that she was guilty.

  She'd gotten the better of him and it sat like a thorn in his side, twisted on occasion by Lord Stansom in his disappointment that there wasn't progress in the case.

  There wasn't even any point in following her when she went out and chose her targets. Now that she chose smaller pieces, he couldn't identify where she would strike. Greed, which was often the downfall for any thief, didn't seem to rule her. On the other hand, there was commonality amongst the people she stole from—they weren't readily known for their charity. It would appear she targeted people she found unsavory. He wasn't sure there was anything he could do with that. Identifying all rich and uncharitable people in London would be an unfathomable task.

  Standing in the shadows, he watched her get into a carriage with her sister and the older woman guarding them. He needed to do something to get past this plateau. It was unacceptable that he knew who she was, but couldn't find a way forward. Under normal circumstances, he'd grab the guilty party, beat them senseless if necessary and force them to answer any questions, but her position restrained him—it would not stop him, however, from finding the proof needed to convict her.

  The two servants left shortly after to seek their own amusement for the evening, leaving this viper's lair unguarded. He needed to understand how she operated.

  The servants' door lock provided little resistance and he walked into the quiet hose, noting the large spaces and sumptuous furnishings, where nothing was heard other than a constant ticking of a clock and the street noise outside.

  Her room wasn't difficult to find; she'd shown it to him herself a few nights back by appearing at the window. Pushing the door open, he walked into the space which even in its darkness was utterly feminine. A four-poster bed in mahogany stood in the middle of the richly carpeted room, a table, two chairs and a dresser with a mirror. The room was warm as the coal was still red in the grate.

  Lighting a lamp, he looked around at the place where she slept. A shift was draped across the back of the dresser chairs and a hairbrush lay on the table.

  Somehow she's snuck right past him the previous night, struck a house near St. James’, claiming a piece the owners had stated they didn't really feel was worth reporting due to the disruption, which made him wonder how much money some people had, where reporting theft wasn't worth the bother. But the fact that the victims didn't inspire sympathy didn't lessen the crime.

  Searching through her drawers he found no sign of the jewels, but he did find strange black clothing in her wardrobe, completely unsuitable for a young woman of her standing. This was what she wore when he went about her illicit business and it was the first bit of proof he had. He considered taking it with him, but decided to leave it as it would be better to catch her and now knew what he was looking for.

  His enquires in the East End had discovered where some of the jewels had ended up, but he couldn't find any links back to her. Boys for hire had delivered the jewels and returned the proceeds to their master. There was someone else involved, but he couldn't identify them. Turning his thoughts to the man he'd seen her with at the park, who he hadn't identified, he wondered if that could be her accomplice. There was another man who regularly visited the Woodford house, but his identity had been confirmed and his involvement discarded.

  Mr. Alstrom came rushing into the room. "His Lordship wishes to see you, but I warn you he's in a foul mood."

  Closing his folder of notes, Rowan rose and made his way down the building to Lord Stansom's offices. The man was pacing with a note in his hand.

  "Cox," he said sharply when Rowan entered the room. "I've received a letter from a Mrs. Rushmore."

  Rowan had to search his mind for the relevance to him as there obviously was one. The older woman, he thought, smiling satirically. "And what does it say?"

  "It states that you, and it names you, have been harassing a Miss Woodford. It even accuses you of entering their house. Is this true?"

  "Which part, sir?"

  "Do you know anything about this? I get nervous when my officers are accused of harassing women." What he meant was that he got nervous when women of quality were harassed. "Is there any truth to this?"

  "It is true that Miss Woodford is being investigated."

  Lord Stansom stared at him intently, but didn't say anything for a moment. "There had better be some cause for this."

  "Through deduction, she had been identified as the most likely culprit."

  Sucking in breath sharply, Lord Stansom started pacing again. The man could order him not to investigate her and Rowan would have to comply. "I could stop, but these housebreakings would continue."

  "Are you sure?" Lord Stansom asked, much of the heat having left his tone.

  "Certain."

  Lord Stansom's mouth drew together in disapproval like a purse, exhaling air through his nose. "I will give you some leeway, but you do not act without proof. I don't want you upsetting the drawing rooms of London in your zeal. My position is difficult enough without you clomping around like an elephant. You be discreet, and if I hear about you overstepping your mark, I will put someone else on the case. Understood?"

  "Perfectly, sir," Rowan said with a sly smile. He had his superior's support, which meant he could go ahead with this investigation more or less unimpeded—within reason.

  Anger suffused him as he walked away. She'd tried to stop him, but this wasn't going to work. Her position was not going to protect her and if she'd hoped it would, she was wrong. His superior’s belief that criminals needed to be caught overruled her pitiful attempts to stop him.

  Feeling bolstered, he made his way to her house to get a report from the boy watching the place. The meeting with Lord Stansom had shown that he needed to take care and show some discretion, but not enough to impede his investigation. Discretion was not a natural state for him, so he wasn't sure he would change anything at all.

  Her door opened as he spoke to the boy and she came out, wearing a light-green silk dress, her stare unblinking as she marched down the stairs and across the street.

  "You do not get to enter my house," she stated, stopping two feet away from him. Anger made her mouth drawn and disapproving.

  "What is good for the goose is good for the gander," he said. Her eyes were blue, lined with lashes and her eyebrows arched pleasingly over them. She was pretty, even angry and staring at him, unable to articulate what she wanted to say.

  "Just because you think something, doesn't mean you can go around and do what you want."

  "Apparently I can," he said. "This," he said, pulling out his identification as an officer of the Metrop
olitan Police, "says I can do what I must to bring criminals to justice." She almost shook with anger and her belligerence annoyed him deeply. "Your birth and position does not immune you from being held accountable for your crimes. This might be your world," he said, waving his arm around the street full of fine houses, "and being what you are, you might be protected from suffering the type of questioning you deserve, but at night, this is my city, and if you enter it, you will be accountable to me." Crossing her arms, she harrumphed as if he was supposed to cower at her disapproval. "I am serious, Miss Woodford. Don't let me catch you out here at night."

  Her lips pursed and he could see her unvoiced rebuke—but you don't, it accused. She'd snuck right past him the previous night and it still stung him painfully. Drawing her head higher, she turned sharply, giving her back to him as she walked back to the house.

  "I'll be here. Come out and play if you want," he said, smiling broadly. Turning her head, she gave him a disgusted look and his fingers itched to do something—strangle her maybe; certainly to wipe that unvoiced rebukes off her face. He could catch her if it was the last thing he did.

  Chapter 13:

  * * *

  That odious man had disappeared after she'd confronted him, which may not have been the most intelligent thing to do, but she'd been so angry. He'd been in her room—her things had shifted ever so slightly and she'd never felt so violated. He'd seen her bed; he'd seen her undergarments. Anger burned through her. And he dared threaten her—icy blue eyes had conveyed the challenge.

  Somehow he'd got away with this behavior, and she would have to put up with him following and watching her. His behavior made her want to be antagonistic. With impunity, he overstepped the mark, because he couldn't catch her, but she knew to respect his investigative abilities, having found her out in the first place. There was the substantive issue of proof and it was the one thing she couldn't give him. She had to be careful and to put strategies in place, and the best way to do that was to unlink each step of the way—her, the jewels, Turner and her activities. They all had to be unlinked, particularly from the points where he would be.