by Olivia Waite
A Thief in the Nude
Olivia Waite
Copyright © 2018 by Olivia Waite
ISBN 13: 978-0-9973332-1-3
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Thank you to those of you who are reading this page and not skimming by: please enjoy this mini-dachshund made of punctuation marks. <6,==,/
Created with Vellum
To all women artists,
but especially to those
whose names we have forgotten.
You are remembered here.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Next: At His Countess’ Pleasure
About the Author
Also by Olivia Waite
Chapter 1
The first thing went wrong before she even got in the door.
Hecuba Jones had learned to pick locks on the doors of her family’s home. Her father had eventually installed a Barron double acting, to challenge her, and it had taken months for Hecuba to find the right amount of pressure to use on the pick—too little and the lock stayed locked, too much and it relocked itself. It had been nearly ten years since she’d tried something that complicated.
The Earl of Underwood was apparently quite mindful of his security, since the lock on the tradesman’s entrance to his home was the very latest model: a Chubb detector lock.
Which was, as everyone knew, unpickable. By anyone, much less an amateur thief a full decade out of practice.
She raised the pick and hook to the edge of the lock and took a deep breath, willing her hands to remain steady. The Chubb’s main feature was that it could only be unlocked by one specific key. Using a copy—or lifting one of its inner levers the slightest bit too high with a pick—would jam the lock entirely. Then, when the owner came home with the right key, the lock would only open if the key was turned the opposite way—so the lock’s owner would know that someone had attempted an entry.
Hecuba’s palms grew damp and she scrubbed them against the material of her black trousers. There was no time for this, damn it all.
She gritted her teeth and leaned closer.
And paused.
A thought occurred.
She transferred pick and hook to her left hand and reached out with her right. Slowly she wrapped her hand around the door handle and turned it.
The door opened with demure, well-oiled silence.
Hecuba didn’t know whether to curse or sing with joy. Instead of doing either, she moved quickly across the threshold and pulled the door quietly shut behind her.
It was a strange thing indeed to move through the darkness of an unfamiliar house. She paused for a long while, just listening, until she was finally convinced that even the most disciplined and devoted servants had long ago sought their beds. Her baggy men’s trousers and high-collared coat were deep black and well-worn enough not to rustle or catch the light as she padded along the corridor of the first story. Five minutes and two wrong doors later brought her to the Earl of Underwood’s study.
Twin shafts of moonlight slipped in through the two tall and imperfectly curtained windows in the far wall. On the right, a pair of paintings hung above a broad old desk bristling with scars. Two more paintings flanked an ancient, cracked mantelpiece on the room’s left-hand side. A few weathered armchairs stood about the room like battered veterans of some ancient upholstery war. One would have expected the earl to be more particular about the state of his décor, but the room was undeniably cozy, in an old- fashioned, masculine kind of way.
She reminded herself not to relax. Despite the room’s welcoming air, disaster would result if she were caught here.
Hecuba stepped forward in her soft leather shoes and raised the darkened lantern. The flick of a wrist set free one slender beam of light, just bright enough for her to see a few telltale colors of the room’s four paintings.
Relief bubbled up in her heart. Yes, these were the ones she’d come for.
She set the lantern on the desk and took down the left-hand painting from that wall, handling its carven frame with great care. Night obscured most of the painting’s details, but she knew it as well as she knew her own face, and her memory filled in the gaps. This painting showed a twilight scene in the back garden of a country cottage: serenely drooping blossoms, rustic white walls, the merest hint of a dusky blue horizon in the distance. On the balcony of the second story, a tall figure dressed all in black with a black mask over his face pressed his back against that white wall, focused on the tempting open window to his right.
It was titled The Thief.
And there was the signature in the lower right-hand corner: C. F. Jones.
The painting had caused a scandal and a sensation when it had been offered for auction after the artist’s demise. Rumor had it that the masked figure depicted was the culprit behind several highly talked-over burglaries of the previous generation, and that the artist had received payment for his work in the form of priceless, purloined jewels.
Nobody knew The Thief’s true identity.
Nobody, that is, except Hecuba Jones.
Hecuba turned the painting facedown and snicked open the blade of her knife.
From behind her, a large hand moved into view on her left and snapped the lantern shut.
Hecuba was plunged into darkness.
While she stood frozen in shock, her right hand—with the knife still clutched in it— was pressed gently yet firmly to the rough wood of the desk. A man spoke, so close that his breath stirred the hair by her right ear. “It seems we both have found ourselves a thief,” he murmured.
In the dark, with her eyesight not yet readjusted to the moonlight, Hecuba struggled to form a picture of her opponent. Tall, certainly, and neither very old nor very young. The grip of his hand was firm but not painful, and it took a certain confidence to sneak up on a thief in one’s own home.
Dear God, he wasn’t the earl, was he?
Hecuba’s palms grew damp and her mind began to race. Her pulse sped up to match. “Congratulations,” she said, with a calmness she only pretended to own. “You’ve caught me. What do you plan to do now?”
Amusement laced his voice. “It seems an appropriate time to summon the authorities, wouldn’t you agree?”
“No, I would not.” Hecuba’s second knife was in her other hand now. She pressed the point of it against whichever part of his anatomy was behind her and slightly to the left. He sucked in a startled breath. “In fact,” she went on, “if you don’t release me, I’m going to have to take drastic measures.”
There was a thoughtful pause. “Oh, my dear, you are already in enough trouble without staining your hands with the blood of a peer.”
She felt him shift and knew he was reaching for the lantern. She pressed the knife slightly more insistently against his body and ordered, “Don’t.”
He chuckled against her ear. His breath was warm, his laugh was low, and Hecuba cursed silently. Damn it, she should not be getting aroused by the smoky, brandy-laden voice of a man she’d never seen and whose paintings she was here to steal. She could have sworn he’d moved closer, the breadth of his chest a mere inch away from her back. The hair on the back of her neck lifted in awareness. His hand curled more firmly around her wrist and she definitely shouldn’t have enjoyed that either. She gripped the knife in her left hand more firmly to balance thi
ngs out.
“I have to wonder,” said the man, “what could have induced you to steal a painting whose financial value doesn’t balance out the risk of the endeavor. It’s an unusual piece, of course, but forgive me if I doubt that’s what brought you here tonight.” He smiled. She knew he smiled—she could practically feel the movement of his lips in the dark.
Stall him. Get him talking. Hecuba swallowed against the kick of her heart. “You’ll certainly have a hard time convincing the authorities that someone came in here to steal it,” she said. “Especially if you don’t have a good description of the thief.”
His voice grew a shade warmer. “Just under six feet tall, moderately slender, a husky voice and hair the purest shade of red I’ve ever seen.”
Damn! He’d seen enough, then, before he’d shut that lantern. She’d known she ought to wear a wig or a hat or blackened her hair with soot. But she hadn’t a wig, soot took forever to wash out, and all the hats she owned were delicate bonnets that would have been much more useful on a visit for afternoon tea—except for the fact that they were all at least three years out of date.
Why was she thinking about hats at a time like this? Focus, Hecuba, she told herself. You’re better than this. All at once she realized her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Had his?
It was time to act. “You have until the count of three to release me, my lord.”
“No earls here, I’m afraid,” he replied equably. “You’ve been apprehended by the younger son, a mere honorable sir.”
“That is too bad for you but it doesn’t change my intentions in the slightest.”
He laughed again and the sound seemed to ripple along every nerve Hecuba possessed. “And to think I had thought tonight was going to be disappointing,” he drawled.
“One,” Hecuba counted.
The earl’s brother went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “I come home early, bored with London’s usual mode of dissipated entertainment, and discover that tonight the entertainment has come to me.”
“Two.” Hecuba subtly shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
His breath teased her ear again when he spoke next. “What else might you intend to steal from me?” he whispered. His lips brushed the tender skin of her earlobe.
Hecuba skipped three. She dropped the knife in her left hand and spun around with an elbow cocked and ready. It slammed into his chest and dropped him to the floor, where he curled up and gasped for his lost breath.
Meanwhile Hecuba was busy slashing the painting free of its frame with the knife in her right hand. Quickly she rolled the canvas into a cylinder, the painted side inward and protected. Before her captor could even lift himself from the floor enough to open the lantern, she was out the nearest window and disappearing fast into the London night.
The Heatherton ball was a complete crush. Hecuba was more than happy to fetch refreshments for her cousins, if only to get away from the ballroom for a minute or two.
It was only when she was returning with a glass of sticky lemonade in each hand that she realized they’d had an ulterior motive for sending her away.
For there were the Misses Pym, Anne and Evangeline, dimpling as hard as they could as their host introduced them to two tall and well-dressed gentlemen. There were giggles and the twinkling of eyes. There were compliments and the blushes they provoked. Flirtation was clearly afoot.
Hecuba sighed and hoped at least one of the gentlemen had half a brain, or else the night would be interminable.
Her cousins managed not to look too disappointed at her reappearance. “Oh, there you are Hecuba,” said Anne, the taller of the pair. She quickly looked back at the men with a smile. “My lord, may I introduce my cousin, Miss Jones? Hecuba, this is the Earl of Underwood—and his brother, the Honorable John Rushmore.”
Hecuba went white. Would it be too scandalous to throw both glasses of lemonade on the man and bolt for the door?
But her cousins were already taking their drinks from her and Hecuba could do nothing but sink into a slow curtsey with her head bowed. “My lords,” she murmured.
“A pleasure, Miss Jones,” said the earl—but Hecuba’s attention was fixed on the other man.
John Rushmore was as tall as she’d thought, with brown hair and eyes. Every line of him was strong and angular, though he didn’t look nearly as stern as his brother. He looked...clean, streamlined, as though everything unnecessary had been left out or cut away. This was the man who’d stood behind her in the dark one night ago, smelling of brandy and spice, whispering threats into her ear while his hand clasped her wrist at the point where her pulse throbbed.
And he was grinning shamelessly at her.
Dear God, he’d recognized her.
“Miss Jones,” he said, bowing over her hand. His satisfied tone could have been mistaken for romantic interest, but Hecuba knew better and she very nearly jerked her arm back out of his grasp. Unfortunately they were in view of a hundred interested people—and her cousins were watching quite closely, along with the earl—so she merely held still while he kissed her hand. She could feel the pressure of his lips on her skin and his fingers on her palm even after he released her. “A pleasure, Miss Jones,” Mr. Rushmore said.
He was enjoying her discomfiture. Hecuba’s shock sharpened into irritation now that it had a mark. “A platitude, Mr. Rushmore,” she replied.
“You’re quite right.” Hecuba regarded this affability with suspicion, but his face was perfectly bland. “We have barely exchanged names, after all. We cannot possibly know anything about each other.”
“Nothing, in fact,” Hecuba agreed.
Mr. Rushmore leaned forward, his smile turning crooked and challenging. “But of course, there is a pleasure in mystery, isn’t there?”
“That pleasure vanishes when the mystery is solved.” Hecuba gave him the most brilliant false smile she could muster. “Therefore, sir, in the interest of furthering your pleasure, you may not want to further your acquaintance with me.”
Anne blanched while Evangeline glanced from Hecuba to her sister in confusion. The earl blinked and looked suddenly much more wakeful.
The Honorable John Rushmore merely laughed...and there was no reason that sound should warm her or make her heart flutter. It did both, to Hecuba’s silent fury.
Anne stepped forward and put her hand on her cousin’s arm before she could say anything else. “Hecuba is a little unused to society, Mr. Rushmore,” she said. “She has lived most of her life in the country, with parents who were rather, well…eccentric.”
Hecuba had long since stopped being surprised when Anne threw these little social daggers her way. In truth, she mostly encouraged it—she had no desire to prance around before a passel of bluebloods who would analyze her hips and her teeth as though those parts of her body foretold what kind of mother she would prove to be. She had no great desire for a wedding or a husband, as Anne did. She also knew that her common background and vivid, unfashionable hair were often considered flaws by the type of gentlemen Anne tried so hard to attract.
But just this once, she wished her cousin thought of her as an ally rather than as competition. As always, when she felt the cold hand of despair, she put her chin up and straightened her spine. “If the gentlemen will pardon me, I feel the need to fetch my own glass of lemonade. It is dreadfully warm in here.” She felt Anne’s relief like a weight pressing her down as she curtsied to the earl—who looked vaguely disappointed—then turned on her heel and strode away.
She retreated to the gallery, a long, dark space high above the ballroom where she could spy unseen on the colorful spinning of the dancers below. Thick pillars and rounded porticoes allowed a clear view down while the watcher herself remained shielded from sight. Up here, it was easier to discern the patterns and movements of the crowd as a whole: the dancers, of course, had their rhythm and symmetry, but even the movements of the groups in conversation on the fringes were more easily understood from this height. She could see who was being a
voided, who was currently the room’s center of attention, who was slipping out to the moonlit gardens and who was following after a too-brief period of time. All of society’s unspoken rules were so visible when one stood outside them.
All while she remained safe and unseen, wrapped in darkness and solitude.
A voice broke into her thoughts. “I’d hoped not to find you here.”
“Then you shouldn’t have looked.” Hecuba didn’t need to turn around to know whose voice had interrupted her. But it felt cowardly to keep her back turned to him— and worse, it felt dangerous, too close to the memory of him behind her the other night.
So she turned around and gave him her coldest expression.
His grin widened and he took his eyes from her to glance at the canvas ancestors that hung on the walls around them. “I must confess to being jealous,” he said in that brandy-rich voice of his. “I’d thought you were interested in my paintings and mine alone. But to catch you studying another man’s gallery...”
Hecuba gritted her teeth. “I’m not here to steal Lord Heatherton’s family portraits,” she ground out.
“So there really is something special about my paintings?” Rushmore said immediately. There was a calculating gleam in his eye that suggested his flirtatious tone hid something harder.
Hecuba took a deep breath and wrestled down her irritation. She would not be drawn into these aristocratic games. “Is there something in particular you want from me, Mr. Rushmore?”
He tilted his head and considered her for a moment. She felt his scrutiny like the press of heat on a scorching summer day, everywhere and nowhere at once. Then he held out a hand. “I would like a dance.”
Hecuba folded her arms across her chest. “I am terribly fatigued, sir,” she said, happy there was nobody around to hear. “I would make a terrible partner.”
