Thief Taker

by Camille Oster

  Eventually he would give up if proof could not be found, and she only had to last long enough for Millie to marry. Cleverness would see her though.

  Sneaking out her window, she made her way along the roofline of her house, down the row of attached town houses, where she could descend out the back of a stable onto a quiet side-street. Fog helped hide her activities as she ran along the mews, a hooded cloak hiding her body and head. She would put it aside somewhere when she got to the house she was entering that night—the residence of a man who made copious amounts of money trading in silk from the Orient. What he really traded was opium, and his wife wore the fruits of his despicable endeavor around her neck. It was a big piece she was after this night, which she wouldn't go for anymore, but she'd decided on it tonight as Millie's friend Catherine, had commented on the jewel worn to the theatre the day before. There was no link between Serephina and this jewel as neither her nor Millie had attended the theatre. Mr. Cox seemed aware that she found pieces at the events she went to, but this piece hadn't been at one of those events, helping her uncouple her activities as she planned.

  A house was still when Serephina entered it through the top floor window, and it didn't take her long as she silently made her way to the Lady Newcombe’s room. Spotting the jewelry box, she made straight for it, but the jewel she was after wasn't there. It must have been moved to the strong box or the bank fairly quickly. But there were other pieces though, lesser pieces that would do in its stead. It would mean a lesser result from the evening, but she wasn't disturbed by that.

  Five pieces sat heavily in her pouch. Getting them home was the point of greatest risk, one that had to be removed if necessary.

  Carefully, she thread back to the mews behind her street. Crouching down, she watched from a perch in the shadows. A horse neighed somewhere in one of the stables, but all was quiet. The stable boys were all asleep in the lofts.

  Creeping out, she silently made her way over to the ascension point and started to climb, but a hand closed around her ankle, pulling her roughly down to the ground again. "And here we are," the deep voice of Mr. Cox said, clearly amused. "What have we got?" he asked, grabbing her upper arm and roughly turning her around, banging her into the stable wall behind her. Her head ached and she went to reach for the sore spot, but he wouldn't let her, taking her wrist in his firm grip.

  Standing back with his hand still pressing her against the wall, he looked down on her cloak. "What have we here?" he asked, pulling the edge of the cloak aside and revealing her black woolen breeches. "Hardly appropriate dress for a lady, would you say? Just out for a stroll, are you?"

  He was big compared to her, crowding her with his presence, but his strength gave her no leverage. "Yes," she said, drawing his attention up to her eyes. Stepping closer, he crowded her further, his palm heavy on her chest just below her neck. Heat from his fingers soaked through her black shirt.

  He smiled. "I have you now."

  "Unhand me," she demanded.

  "And that is going to happen," he said with a chuckle. His hand crept up to her neck and drew her forward. "Turn around, with your hands on the wall." His voice was almost silken. He was enjoying this. "Now, Miss Woodford."

  Considering her options, she determined that there was little she could do but comply. His hand was on the back of her shoulder and she wished he would take it off her. Never had she been treated like this.

  Guardedly, she put her hands on the wall. He was going to search her. It was absolutely unheard of, but she knew that he was within his rights to do so, to conduct such intimate searching. It shouldn't be allowed. How could he touch her so intimately?

  "Legs apart," he said and lightly kicked her foot until she stepped it a bit further apart. "Let's see what we find, shall we?" he said, almost purring with amusement.

  "You'll find nothing," she stated, still shocked that he could do this. Closing her eyes, she admitted that she had brought this on herself as a consequence of her actions, had brought him to her life. She had to stay the course and deal with this—and this unfortunate incident was part of it.

  "Sadly, I cannot take your word for it."

  His hand traveled down her spine, moving underneath her cloak for better access. Serephina's breath caught in her throat. She'd never been touched like this, by anyone let alone a man. It swerved over her back, taking in every part, then moved to her shoulders and slowly moved down her entire arm, even the palms of her hands. His fingers against hers were shocking, more so as he touched her very skin. Obviously she'd touched hands with other people, but for some reason this was more confronting. His skin was rough and callused.

  After repeating the treatment on the other arm, he moved to her chest, reaching around her. Gasping, she reacted when he touched her breasts, swooping over them and feeling along the edge underneath. Biting her lip, she refused to give any attention to what he was doing. No man had ever touched her breasts. Admittedly, she'd always wondered what it would feel like and the sensations it caused, stole into her consciousness.

  Her dry mouth gave her trouble swallowing when he moved further down across her ticklish belly and confusion stole into her mind, related to the odd sensations his search was drawing in her. She hated every moment, but there was still something desperately curious about the feel of a man's touch.

  She wasn't sure she could take it as his hands ran over her backside and around her thigh. "That is quite enough," she said.

  "Almost," he said, running his hand down her knees, making her stance waver with the sensation it stirred in her. Then her ankles. Curious sensations flowed up her legs as he stroked down every part of her skin. "Lift your foot."

  Complying, she stood there, unsure what he was doing when he started untying her shoes. "You cannot be serious."

  "You'd be amazed what people hide in their shoes," he said, her foot resting on his thigh as he was crouched by her feet. A warm hand ran over her foot, shook the shoe, then returned it to her foot. "The other," he said firmly and she complied.

  He found nothing and she wanted to gloat. Standing up, he roughly turned her around. "Now unhand me, you brute," she demanded.

  Chuckling, he reached around and undid her braid before running his fingers into her hair along her scalp, which seemed to tense and draw together under his fingers. Shock still stunned her.

  He'd found nothing, like she knew he wouldn't, having enacted her strategy of unlinking. The jewels were sitting deep in a thick hedge-bush down the street. With him entering the house, she'd decided she couldn't keep anything incriminating there anymore, even just temporarily.

  "What have you done with it?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about," she stated. "And this is deplorable." Reaching back, she slapped him as hard as she could. He might be in his right, but so was she.

  Groaning with annoyance, he placed his hand next to her head, crowding her again and she felt her anger and obtuseness rise further as she looked up into his dark eyes, hidden by the shadows of the night except for slight reflections of the light. "Clever," he acknowledged and she almost smiled, but decided that it was perhaps best not to antagonize him.

  "Are you quite done?" she demanded in her haughtiest voice, holding her head as high as she could manage.

  "Not by a long shot. I told you not to come out at night. I will be here, and I will do this to you every time I catch you out here."

  "I am not your prisoner, Mr. Cox. You have found nothing; you cannot detain me further."

  "No, but you are still my suspect and I am very good at biding my time."

  Serephina pushed his arm away and he let her. There was no graceful way to walk away after he'd just had her up against the wall, running her hands over every part of her, but she tried, striding away with determination. There was no point going up to the roof now, so she walked around to the front of the house, refusing to look behind her.

  The feel of his touch still clung to her skin as she locked the door behind her, locking him outsi
de. Leaning on the door, she crossed her arms around her, unsure how she felt. She didn't know how to feel about what had just happened—there certainly was no etiquette that applied for moments like these. Technically he was within his rights to search her, but it was such an imposition. First her room, then her body. Mr. Cox was prying his way into her life, but she was more determined than ever, maybe even if just to thwart him.

  Chapter 14:

  * * *

  Lying in bed, Rowan stared up at the small crack that ran along his ceiling. He'd been so close, he'd thought it was all over, that he would be dragging her into the cells, but no, she'd thwarted him again—drawn this game out longer. Clever, clever, clever, he thought. She didn't bring the jewelry back to her house—which made the game more complicated still. Grazing his stubble with his fingers, he considered if she might have a lodging somewhere, where she stashed the jewelry, but then why were her stealing clothes in her wardrobe.

  It seemed Miss Woodford had through a great deal about not being caught, and her plotting was more involved than he'd given her credit for. She was good at her profession, but so was he, and he had determination.

  Recrossing his feet, he fought an urge to get up, to make his way to Mayfair and stalk her house. It felt like he was missing out by being home in bed. It was near midday and he should make an appearance at the office, but what he really wanted was sex. His body burned with energy and want.

  He'd been so very angry last night, having his prize snatched away, just when he was savoring victory—but too soon it had turned out. For this one, he would just have to work a bit harder.

  Turning his head to the kitchen, he saw the Allerson file sitting on the table, untouched over the last week. These housebreakings had been a nuisance case at first, but the caliber of the thief had seeped into his mind and he thought of little else these days. And she was such a deceptive little thing. There was nothing to her—except pride and cunning. He pictured her face, drawn and angry, staring at him with her chin lifted high. Such defiance. And curves—soft, feminine curves. He'd tried hard not to notice. For a moment, when it had dawned on him that she'd slipped out of his fingers, he'd wanted to hold on, but she'd walked away probably laughing at him.

  Discomfort forced him to move and he swung his legs over the side of the bed, but he stayed sitting for a while. Hunger stung his belly, having forgotten to eat last night. His stomach growled with displeasure. Still dressed from the night before, he got up and put his boots on, then pulled on his jacket and hat, ready to face another day. Perhaps today would be the day, he thought. It would be nice to finish the night bringing her in, knowing his job was done and she was locked safety behind bars.

  The chop shop down the road was packed as people sought refuge from the rain that had started. Rowan sat down at a table and ordered a pork chop with gravy and peas. Rain had brought humidity to the shop, and mud along the floor, which a scouring maid was trying to tackle with a brush and bucket.

  The relentless city went about its business. The costermongers had placed tarpaulins over their goods, but it was poor business on a day like this. Horses walked slower and the street urchins claimed every covered space along the streets, to be shooed away by shop owners.

  The men next to him were discussing the coronation that had been set for June. A mere girl was to be their queen and the men lamented the future of the realm, being put in the hands of an empty-headed girl. Rowan chuckled quietly as he was currently entrapped in the machinations of a mere girl. But it was time to utilize some of the weapons he had in his arsenal, namely three thousand constables.

  Mayfair was a hive of activity and Rowan had been given one hundred bobbies to assist him with patrols. The rain had finally stopped, but it made things worse by seemingly bringing every man and woman into London out on the streets. Thousands of carriages were out carrying their owners and hires to their destination as everyone sought amusement and diversion.

  The women had apparently been out that day, but Rowan didn't know where, but right now they were dining, or so his boy understood when Rowan relieved him for the night, paying him a crown for the day's work.

  Standing by the fence across the street, a spot that had become rather familiar to him now, he considered what he needed. He couldn't grab her coming out of her house, even if he now knew she used an entrance along her own roofline, because it wasn't illegal to stand on one's own roof, even to use it as an entrance to the house. Crossing someone else's roof did equate to trespassing, but he could hardly bring her in for that—certainly not get a conviction. Even grabbing her when she returned was useless unless she actually had something incriminating on her.

  The only thing he could do was catch her in the act, or catch her with stolen property on her person, or otherwise in her possession, but he now knew she didn't bring it back to her house.

  The night wore on with not much happening. The women seemed to stay in, which only made him itch because she wouldn't engage in her activities if she was at a ball, or whatever other events she went to. He knew she'd be climbing the rooftops tonight; he could feel it like an itch in his palms.

  Another thing that made her predictable was that she utilized a small window of time in the late evenings, when the owners of the home were out, except on the few occasion when she struck houses where the owners were away, but she had still done so during the late evenings when servants had taken to their rooms.

  A whistle blew somewhere; he couldn't identify the direction, but it was one of his constables as all others had been told to refrain if possible. Running, he tore down the street. She was on the move. Someone had spotted a figure walking around the roofs, which is what the constables had been told to watch for.

  There were ten bobbies standing around look up at an empty spot. "I saw something there," one of them said, pointing. "I swear a head popped out."

  "Spread out," Rowan ordered and the men complied. "Keep watching." So she was out after all—he'd been right, pleased that he was starting to call her actions and get into her mind. The only question now was which direction she was going.

  "Here," a man far down the street yelled and Rowan took off at speed. He kept running, following the figure who appeared to move at a quick pace and for a moment, he spotted her, or rather a black shape moving along the roof. The moon was out tonight—a mistake on her part.

  The row of houses came to the end and there was a space. Running around the corner, Rowan saw the black figure leap the gap, high over his head, quick as a flash then she was gone, onto the next row of houses. The gap had been large enough for a carriage, so she wasn't opposed to taking risks.

  There was no way she hadn't heard the men below searching for her. Bobbies were rarely discreet and their shouts echoed across the walls. Running along in the direction she was moving, he couldn't find her, like she'd vanished into thin air. He was never going to catch her down here. She wasn't coming down, so he needed to get up there.

  Scanning the walls, he looked for a way up, but it seemed impossible. He wasn't lithe like her, seemingly able to scale flat walls. He saw her, crossing a wider gap across a plank, stepping carefully but steadily across the crevasse between buildings, holding her arms out for balance. For a moment, he thought she would fall, feeling his heart lurch violently. She was taking incredible risks, but he guessed he couldn't blame her—bad things would happen if she was caught. An outcome that always proved motivating.

  Had she put the plank there? Was there a course she was following? They were still quite far away from her house, but in close enough vicinity that she must be making her way home.

  He had to get up there.

  Running around a corner, he saw the roof of a single story house, but it faced a sheer wall on the other side. Then he saw another spot where he could conceivably climb up, but he cursed the difficulty as he attempted, using every bit of his strength to pull himself up. Although saying that, he was glad it was hard or he would be chasing every criminal in London across this
obstacle course.

  Pulling himself over the ledge, he didn't look down because it was a long way down and if he lost his grip, he wouldn't survive the fall. The roofline was uneven and slippery with water from the earlier rain. Moving as fast as he could, he moved in the direction he'd seen her last. Climbing had taken longer than he wanted and he was far behind her, needing to move fast to catch up. If she took risks, so would he.

  Putting the danger aside, he ran, not willing to let her go because he was worried he'd fall, bolstered by catching sight of her with her cloak moving behind her like water in a strong current as she ran across the rooftop. He picked up speed and was gaining on her because he was fundamentally faster than her, and luckily he hit a fairly flat patch.

  She disappeared and he lost sight of her, turning to try to see her as there were diverging directions she could have gone. Then he spotted her and set off again, stopping short as his heart lurched into his throat, facing the end of a row and a long drop down. He'd almost gone over, barely able to stop.

  "Reached a dead end," he heard and looked up. His heart was still beating too hard to speak. There she stood, with her foot resting on the ledge of a roof. Everything was black up here, covered in soot and she blended in perfectly. The space between him and her was too far to jump and she knew it.

  Looking around he searched for a way across, but couldn't see one. How the hell had she gotten over there? Although if she had planks everywhere, she could easily retract one.

  Breathing heavily, he returned his gaze to her, where she stood calm as day. She was right—he had reached a dead end and she could stand there teasing him all she liked, because he couldn't reach her. He itched to get his hands on her, and right this minute he didn't care if he had proof. He wanted to wrap his hand in her hair and hold her, but he couldn't. She was so close, but a gap stood between them—a barrier he couldn't overcome.