“I don’t believe you’ll need to teach me how to do that,” Alice said slowly.
“Having second thoughts about tolerating crime? You seemed keen enough on it last night.” Molly ought to be glad. She had no business risking her position. “Just as well, I suppose.”
“What?” Alice seemed genuinely bewildered. “Of course I was. And I am. What I meant was that I know how to pick a lock.”
Molly raised an eyebrow. “And how the devil did you learn to do that?”
“One of my brothers used to get locked in the cupboard as a punishment, and I would let him out after my father had drunk himself into oblivion.”
A real charmer, the vicar. Molly only raised an eyebrow.
“I used to sometimes pay the housemaid’s wages out of the strongbox after my father had fallen asleep,” Alice continued. “Or I would unlock the pantry to get bits of food.”
Bits of food? The way she described it, the vicarage sounded as bad as Newgate. “What do you use? Hairpins?” That was what people always tried first, which was perfectly fine, except—
“A pair of my longest embroidery needles.”
Twenty minutes later, Alice, using fearsome needles that looked like small stilettos more than the sort of thing a lady would use to produce cushions for the front parlor, locked and unlocked the door to their room, her own traveling case, and Mrs. Wraxhall’s jewel box.
“Well, I daresay you’ll be able to manage Tenpenny’s toilette case.”
They settled it between them. Molly would distract Tenpenny’s valet while Alice took the cravat pin. Then Alice would spend the rest of the day downstairs with the ladies and gentlemen, where she belonged, and Molly would try to get used to the idea that she was about to become nothing more than a tawdry memory.
Alice did not think it at all likely that she would develop an appetite for further crime. When she stepped into Mr. Tenpenny’s bedchamber, she expected to be immediately hauled away by thief-takers and magistrates. Instead, it was dark and quiet, the curtains drawn and the fire banked. The pounding of her heart was the loudest thing in the room. She took a deep breath that did nothing to steady her nerves.
Then she pretended that she was at the vicarage, pilfering a bit of bread from the pantry. This was only different in scale, really. Instead of bringing her brother the food he was denied because of their father’s tyranny, she was taking Mr. Tenpenny’s diamond to reclaim the life that was snatched from her. She had never not stolen—scraps of food to give to the poor, money for the servants’ wages, little bits and pieces to make things right. She had always thought it a necessary part of living in her father’s house—he didn’t have the moral fortitude to do what was needful, so she did it.
Today would be the first time she had taken for herself.
But it wasn’t only for herself. It was also for Molly. This was a joint venture. They were splitting the proceeds: half would go for Molly to put aside for Katie, and the other half would go for Alice to hire a small house where she could take in lodgers.
It seemed a waste to set up two separate households when they could get by more cheaply together, though. Neither of them was afraid of hard work, and with a bit of economy they could live quite decently and still put money aside. Molly would be able to have Katie with her every day, rather than waiting days and weeks between short visits. Perhaps she could be induced to give up the relative security of her post with Mrs. Wraxhall to run a boarding house with Alice. They could share the work and the profits, which seemed a very sensible and efficient arrangement.
Alice knew she was lying to herself. Her interest in sharing a house, a bed, with Molly had nothing to do with economy. Seeing Molly had become the high point of Alice’s day. Molly’s casual profanity, Molly’s swaggering walk, Molly’s crooked smile—all those were somehow the precise shape of some emptiness in Alice’s heart. What had happened last night in bed was only part of it—a crucial part, without a doubt—but only a part.
She dragged her thoughts back to the present. Scanning the room, she found the gentleman’s toilette case sitting on the dressing table. In her pocket were embroidery needles of a few different sizes; it was the one suited for lacework that fit into the miniature keyhole. Still imagining that she was picking the pantry lock, she put her ear to the case and adjusted the needle until she felt the inner workings fall into place.
And then there it was, the lock was open. When she eased back the lid, the contents of the box gleamed in the faint light. There were a few golden guineas, an array of shirt studs, and an old-fashioned watch fob, but amidst all that sparkle and shine, she saw no cravat pin. He must be wearing it. She hadn’t thought he’d be so vulgar as to wear such a bauble during the day, but perhaps men who exposed themselves to unwilling women weren’t to be relied on as models of gentlemanly propriety.
She could take the shirt studs, but they were nothing compared to the diamond. She wasn’t going to commit a felony for twenty pounds’ worth of brass.
Resigned, she closed the lid and once again used the needle, this time to lock the box again.
No sooner had she silently dropped the needle back into her pocket when she heard the sound of a door opening. She spun on her heel, only to find Mr. Tenpenny standing in the doorway.
“What do we have here?” His voice was every bit as greasy and insinuating as it had been the day she had met him. “I daresay Mrs. Wraxhall will be charmed to know her protégée has been lying in wait in a gentleman’s bedchambers. This sort of gossip is just the sort of thing to liven up a house party.”
Alice’s mouth went dry with dread and unchecked fear. But then she saw the sparkle of the diamond cravat pin below Mr. Tenpenny’s chin.
The world suddenly divided into things that mattered and things that did not. On the former list was stolen jewels and Molly Wilkins. On the latter list was whatever claptrap Mr. Tenpenny chose to spread about.
He couldn’t harm her any more than he already had, so he was free to run his mouth as much as he pleased, as far as she cared.
But how to get that pin? She tried to imagine what Molly would do in her shoes. And when the idea finally clicked in her mind, she could hardly stop from laughing.
“Oh, how embarrassing,” she said, consciously adopting the contrite tone she always used to placate her father. “But I hardly knew how else to approach you.”
“To approach me,” Mr. Tenpenny repeated with a look of lecherous triumph.
“I was so glad when I learned that you were to be a guest at Eastgate Hall.” She cast her eyes down, focusing all her attention on a swirl in the plush carpet beneath her feet rather than on the man standing before her. “So very glad.” She cast a shy look at his face, then back at the carpet. “I felt so very silly after what happened at my father’s house this summer, and I wanted a chance to tell you so myself.” Now she looked up again, and deliberately, slowly smoothed the bodice of her gown.
Because when she had asked herself what Molly would do in this situation, the answer had been as clear as if Molly were here to whisper it laughingly in her ear: she would play the coquette and use Tenpenny’s pride and weakness against him.
“Is that so?” Mr. Tenpenny took a step closer, and Alice willed herself not to step away. If all else failed, she had that needle in her pocket and wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
Alice, one hand firmly gripping that needle, reached up and stroked the lapel of Mr. Tenpenny’s coat.
“A minx, aren’t you? I knew it. All that coyness the last time was just meant to pique my interest, I daresay.”
Alice felt very bad for the ladies who had looked forward to seducing Mr. Tenpenny if the man could not tell a woman’s shriek of horror from flirtatious coyness. She made a noncommittal murmur and slid her hand to the knot of his cravat. Then, just as he bent his head, presumably to kiss her with that loathsome mouth, she plucked the pin out of his cravat.
For a moment she thought of running. She could, she supposed. Would Horace Tenpenn
y admit to having been robbed by an insignificant spinster? He might rather lose his diamond than become a laughingstock.
There was another way, though. A smile spread across her face when she realized it.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Tenpenny asked, only just now comprehending what had happened.
“You owe me this.” Her voice had all the conviction her father’s had always held from the pulpit. It was because she was speaking the truth. He did owe her this.
“You compromised me. You ruined my reputation. If my father were another sort of man altogether, he would have demanded that you marry me. He would have written to that wealthy aunt of yours and we would have been married by Michaelmas.” Thank God he hadn’t. At the time, Alice might have even been grateful for the match, relieved not to have been abandoned by her family.
Mr. Tenpenny made a reach for the cravat pin, but Alice took a step back.
“No, no. You’re going to listen to me. You wriggled out of a terrible marriage that day. Imagine, a man like you, saddled with a penniless wife like me. The only reason you escaped was that my father is as much of a villain as you are. But he isn’t here today. It’s just me, and I have nothing to lose. All I have to do is open my mouth and scream.”
“I’ll tell everyone you were in my room waiting for me,” he scoffed. “Nobody would think I would seduce such a one as you.”
“Half this house party thinks I’m an heiress. A very boring heiress, hardly the type to seduce anybody. However, they’d quite think you capable of seducing me to force a marriage, I think. Mrs. Wraxhall has some influence. She’d demand that you marry me and wouldn’t hesitate going to your aunt and uncle to insist that you cooperate. And, Mr. Tenpenny, I don’t think you can afford to do without your aunt’s money any more than you can afford to marry a penniless wife.”
His face was a very satisfying shade of purple. “This is extortion.”
Alice considered this. “Or blackmail. I can never remember which is which. Whatever the case, you’ll let me have your cravat pin as a payment for letting you escape from a very improvident marriage.” She could almost hear the gears of his sad little mind turning as he considered her offer.
“Fine,” he said, his teeth gritted. “Get out of my room, you—”
Alice had slipped out before he could finish the sentence.
When Alice swept into their shared bedchamber, Molly knew straightaway that she had been successful. She fairly glowed. If this was what jewel theft did to a girl, it was a wonder it wasn’t more common.
But Molly knew it wasn’t the diamond that made Alice look like she had beams of light stuck under her skin, but rather the fact that she had taken back what was hers.
“I’ve got it,” Alice said, holding out the cravat pin.
Molly scarcely paid the jewel any attention, instead pulling Alice into an embrace. Their hearts were both racing. “Did everything go as planned?”
“No,” Alice said, the sound muffled in Molly’s hair. “He found me. I made him let me have it.”
That changed things. Molly had planned to hide the pin among her belongings—sewn into the hem of her skirt or the boning of her corset—until they returned to London. But now she’d have to get rid of that diamond in case Tenpenny decided to summon a magistrate and have Alice arrested. Even if she knew a pawnbroker in Norfolk, she’d hardly want to sell the diamond so close to where it had been stolen. No, she needed to go back to London now and do this thing safely.
“What’s wrong?” Alice asked, leaning back to peer searchingly at Molly’s face.
“No time to explain.” There came the old, familiar fear of being caught, hanged, transported. “Give me the diamond so I can sell it.”
Alice handed it over without hesitation. “You can’t just leave, though. You’ll lose your place.”
She might, if it came to that. But here they were, with a stolen diamond on them, and a mean-spirited man who might do God only knew what. Even if the worst happened and she got sacked, she’d still have half the worth of the diamond.
“Thank you,” she said, pressing her lips to Alice’s for a kiss that was too hurried to mean anything.
Chapter Eight
Molly didn’t return that night. When the sun rose the following morning and Molly still wasn’t there, Alice started to worry. She had told Mrs. Wraxhall—who had been overflowing with apologies that she had inadvertently subjected Alice to Mr. Tenpenny’s company during the house party—that Molly was ill, but she couldn’t keep up that pretense forever. Besides, somebody must surely have seen Molly leave. She couldn’t have walked to—Alice suddenly realized she had no idea where Molly planned to go. She felt utterly stupid for having let Molly go without having asked. At first, she thought Molly meant to sell the jewel in Norwich, but perhaps she intended to travel to London. In that case she couldn’t possibly return until tomorrow at the earliest. And she needn’t bother coming back, because there would be no job waiting for her, not after Mrs. Wraxhall inevitably realized that Molly wasn’t in bed. Likely Alice would be turned off as well, after Mrs. Wraxhall discovered that she had lied about Molly’s illness.
Those were relatively minor concerns, compared to the dawning certainty that Molly was not coming back. What if Molly were no different from Alice’s father and sister, willing to cast Alice off as a bad bargain? Molly had given Alice no reason to think so, but Alice couldn’t silence the whisper that she was worth less than a diamond. That whisper had been with her for as long as she could remember, and she had precious little evidence that she might be worth even more than a hairpin, let alone a diamond cravat pin.
That next morning, with still no word from Molly, Alice packed her valise and knocked on the door to Mrs. Wraxhall’s bedchamber. The lady was sitting at her dressing table, arranging her hair as best she could without a lady’s maid.
“Alice!” she exclaimed, turning to face the door. “What on earth are you doing with your valise?”
“Ma’am, I’m afraid I lied when I said that Molly was ill. The truth is that she had to leave to dispatch an errand for me, and she hasn’t yet returned. It was quite wrong of me to ask her to do this, and I take full responsibility. Please don’t give her the sack.”
“The sack? What on earth are you talking about? What errand? Alice, you’re as white as a sheet.”
“I can’t tell you about the errand, only that it’s my fault.”
Mrs. Wraxhall opened her mouth as if to ask further questions, and then snapped it shut again. Instead, she took her coin purse out of her dressing table drawer. “How much do you need to get wherever you’re going?”
“I don’t know where I’m going. I thought you’d want me to leave, so I ought to be prepared.”
“Of course. The last time you were turned out, you hardly had enough time to grab so much as a clean shift. I have no intention of turning out either you or Molly. She’s worked for me for several years, and never once have I had the least reason not to trust her. Quite the contrary, in fact. She helped me at a time when I thought I was beyond help. So I have to believe that if she saw fit to deceive me, she had a reason she thought worthy, and a person for whom she was willing to risk her position. If that person were her daughter, I feel certain that she would have told me herself. That leads me to believe that she has another person she feels strongly about, and the fact that she told you the nature of her errand suggests that you are that person. No, you don’t need to confirm. Just tell me what you need.”
“What I need?” Alice echoed, stunned.
“What you want, if you prefer.”
What she wanted was for Molly to return, for Molly to be safe. But there was no way to ensure that. Either Molly would return or she wouldn’t. All Alice could do was wait. But while she was waiting, perhaps there was something else she could do. “I want to go to the vicarage at Barton St. Mary.”
Mrs. Wraxhall raised her eyebrows. “To burn it down, I hope?” she asked coolly. “Perhap
s smash its windows?”
Alice smiled despite herself. “To get what’s mine,” she said.
“Do let me send you in my carriage,” Mrs. Wraxhall said. “I’d be honored.”
Alice patted the pocket where she kept the coins Molly had gotten for selling the handkerchiefs. “I need to do this on my own.”
Molly thought Alice was worth something. But Alice didn’t believe it herself, and she didn’t think she could manage so much as a friendship if she doubted that. She wasn’t sure how to go about changing her own mind, but she knew she had to start at Barton St. Mary.
The cart left her off at the bottom of the lane that led to the vicarage. The oak trees had been heavy with leaves when she had last seen them, but now they were bare, spindly branches shaking in the wind. Alice drew her pelisse tighter around her. That was something else that was different—she had been poor and shabby, friendless and scared when she had left this place.
She was still poor, but not shabby. Perhaps not friendless. And now that she thought of it, she wasn’t scared. A scared Alice would never have dared come back here.
The door was answered by a housemaid Alice had never seen before, a painfully thin child of at most twelve, wearing what Alice recognized as one of her own old frocks that had been relegated to the rag bin some time ago. It was hardly a surprise that Alice’s father hadn’t been able to keep their old maid without Alice around to do half the work and secretly supplement her wages. This child had likely come from the workhouse. She had shadows under her eyes and a smudge on one cheekbone that could either be dirt or a fading bruise. Alice frowned.
“I’m here to see the vicar,” Alice said. She glanced around the hall. It was dirty. Nobody had cleaned the windows or dusted the woodwork since she left. “You may tell him Miss Stapleton is here.”
The girl’s eyes widened in what was probably a mix of fear and surprise, but she scampered off, leaving Alice to wait in the hall. Alice worried that the child would be punished as the deliverer of unwelcome news, but there came no raised voices nor the sound of objects being flung against the wall. She was seized with the realization that this house was no place for a child: not a waif from the workhouse, not the motherless children of the vicar, nobody. That housemaid didn’t deserve this, and neither had Alice. The hunted look she had seen on the little housemaid’s face had been familiar enough from her brothers and sisters, and on her own reflection in the looking glass.
A Little Light Mischief Page 7
