Mad for Love (20 page)

Rory’s voice was full of astonished wonder.

“Why are you so surprised?” she asked.

“Because…theory is all well and good, but one never knows, does one?” He began to scoot his way backwards, out from under the stair.

Mignon followed. “Of course one does, when one is a top notch gentleman thief.”

“Ah, yes.” His exhalation of relief carried a quiet chuckle. “What an extraordinary feeling.” He opened up the shutter on the lantern and held out his hand to help her up. “Come. Let’s go test our theory, and see if we can get our sham Verrocchio.”

He made quick work of picking the lock one last time, and peered cautiously into the dark exhibition space. “Wait here, while I see if it worked. If not, prepare yourself for round three.”

She nodded and put her hands up to cover her ears.

“Oh, wait.” He turned back. “One more thing.” He directed the thin beam of the glim toward the shelves, and found the runner’s hidden bottle of gin. “This will do nicely.”

Armed with the gin, Rory made his silent way across to the statue, but this time, when he tipped the Diana off her pedestal, silence reigned.
 

Nothing happened. No alarm, no hue and cry. Nothing.
 

The alarm had been well and truly disabled—Mr. Tildesley’s Patent alarm locks had been made patently useless.

“Perfect.” Her gentleman thief cradled the Verrocchio in his arms like a baby, and replaced her with the gin bottle before he tip-toed back to Mignon. “Here’s yer worthless, ten thousand guinea baby.”

“Thank you. It is quite remarkable to have the troublesome thing back. What a lot of bother she has caused.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He took a critical look at the thing. “Yer grandpapa was pretty damn good, ye ken. To say nothing of grandmama.” He carefully pulled the cleaning bucket with Mignon’s discarded poplin gown out of the closet. “Wrap her up tight in those skirts. Carefully. And into the bucket she goes.”

When they had arranged the statue to their liking in the bottom of the deep bucket, “Now what?” she asked.

“Now, yer job is, no matter what happens, stay down on yer knees and keep scrubbing, moving in the direction of that guard’s room.” He pointed across the exhibition hall toward the doorway through which all the runners had disappeared.
 

“But the guard’s room will be full of runners.”

He shook his head. “The moment the cry goes up that the Verrocchio is gone,” he whispered, “there will be runners everywhere
but
the guard’s room.”

“Oh, yes. I see exactly.”

“Clever lass. Now into the chimney piece with ye, until the charwomen get here and start to scrub. And don’t stop until ye get to the guard’s room. Don’t let anyone, or anything stop ye.”

“I will not let them stop me,” she swore.

He smiled down at her. “Ye’ve a cobweb on yer dingy old cap. And dirt and dust all over yer skirts. And ye are still the most remarkably beautiful lass I have ever seen.”

Mignon could feel her face heat with pleasure. Even though she was locked in a museum with a priceless, worthless statue they had just stolen, in the middle of the night, with a gentleman thief she was falling in love with, she didn’t know when she had been happier.

 
But she was even happier the next moment, when he kissed her sweetly upon the corner of her mouth, and whispered, “Remarkable lass.” And pushed her down into the chimney piece.

Which was a great deal roomier, but a great deal less comfortable without his presence.

And though it worried her that she had no idea where he had taken himself off to hide, she did not have long to wait. Just as the clock above the mantelpiece chimed out midnight, a unseen door could be heard opening, followed by the boisterous, businesslike voices of the charwomen, who filed past to retrieve mops and pails from the closet, and quickly set to work.

Mignon simply waited until they had worked their way close to her, and then she backed out of the empty fireplace as if she had been in there scrubbing all along.

She edged in behind two beefy-looking ladies who were having a good chatty coze.

“So I sez, ‘Oo do you fink yer talkin’ to, I sez, and then I sez, I knows me worf.”

“You tell ‘im, hen.”

Mignon had a start when she heard the runners start to filter out into the exhibition space, until it became clear they were just there to chat and flirt with the char women, who were clearly happy to pause in their work.
 

“‘Ello, ‘ello, Doris, m’girl. Good night of it?”

“Yeah, all right. You?”

Mignon edged away, and pulled her dingy cap down around her face to stay inconspicuous.

 
“Had a right cropper ‘ere,” the runner answered.

Doris sat up, and put her hands to her copious hips. “Did’ja now? Heard there was a to-do.”

“You don’t know the ‘alf of it,” was the runner’s answer. “Hasn’t the bloody special alarm under that ruddy statue there”—he flung his arm in the direction of the statue.

And saw, along with the rest of them, a gin bottle instead.

“Oh, bloody everlastin’ ‘ell!” he exploded. “Alarm,” he called at the top of his voice. “Alarm!”

Mignon had almost made it all the way to the doorway, and she didn’t have to fake her own shriek of alarm when the runners came piling out of the guard’s room. “‘Ere!” she added for authenticity’s sake.

But the moment after they all come storming by, shouting and yelling at each other, she scooted right in behind them, and shut the guard’s room door. She would have turned the lock, but the door burst open behind her, she was being hauled up off her feet by one of the runners.
 

But before she could think, or scream, or kick him hard in the shins, he kissed her.

And she melted against him. “Rory.”

“Shhh. Right this way. Quickly.” He took the cleaning bucket out of her hand and led her out the back of the room, down a stair to the basement, and through a catacomb-like storage area, which must have once been the Somerset kitchens.

They came out into the night through a locked door that Rory picked open, on the lower level, on the opposite side of the house, close to the river. Rory led her along the embankment, following a path east until they arrived at an alley along the docks.
 

Where a well-remembered phaeton was waiting. With the same disreputable, lazy tiger. “All right then, guv’na?” He shoved himself to his feet.

“Absolutely, Archie. If ye’d take this.” Rory handed over the bucket containing their precious cargo, and reached under the seat to produce a large great coat for himself and a long, black velvet cloak for her. “Put this on to cover those clothes. And let us be rid of that marvelously atrocious cap.”
 

He pulled the nasty old thing off her head, disrupting her pins and making her hair tumble down over her shoulders. But she had no time to put it back up, as he was already settling the enveloping cloak across her shoulders and looping the clasp.
 

“Up ye go.” He practically tossed her up onto the high perch seat. And then he was slinging his own coat on over the livery, taking the top hat the tiger, Archie, handed him, before he climbed up beside her. “Spring ‘em.”
 

And they were away, with the river and Somerset House rapidly lost from view as they rolled around the corner and headed north. He knew his way well, winding them through the Clare Market, and then west and north again, in a random pattern that finally brought them around the back of Soho Square to her house, where she would be safe and sound. Where all was right with the world.
 

Rory handed her down like a gallant, and if his hands perhaps lingered overlong at her waist, she did not mind. In fact, she welcomed it.
 

At least until she caught sight of nosy Mrs. Parkhurst twitching the curtains over to have a better peek from next door.
 

Rory noticed too. “She saw us, yer neighbor.”

“She sees everything,” Mignon sighed. Not that she had ever given the old woman something to see.

“Yer reputation, I’m afraid, will be in tatters,” he teased.

“About time.” Nothing could mar her good spirits tonight, not even the threat of Mrs. Parkhurst’s wagging tongue. “I am sure my personal reputation can withstand this small blow, as long as my family’s reputation stays intact. And if the old woman puts anything about, I shall say that your tiger was here to chaperone us.”

“Ah, yes, Archie. He’s the soul of discretion.” Rory spoke over his shoulder at the young man. “Act discreet, as well as pious, Archie. Ye should be able to manage that.”

Mignon laughed, and took the hand Rory offered to walk her to her steps.

“What are we to do with…her?” she asked in a low voice, referring to the Diana. “I cannot take her within. Papa will…” She couldn’t begin to explain what a scoundrel like her father might be tempted to do with a stolen and forged statue. Not to mention that their home might be the first place the Bow Street Runners might choose to search, should the robbery of the statue somehow point their way.

All her relief at getting the statue away from Somerset House dissolved into a new bundle of worries, lodging deep inner chest.

Her gentleman thief remained entirely unperturbed. “I think I may be able to help.”

And just like that, she could breathe again. “That would be much appreciated. I suppose you can use your criminal connections and fence it along?”

“Miss Blois, ye astonish me.” He was smiling at her in his roguish, teasing manner. “What do ye know of fences?”

“My grandfather and my father were, and are forgers, Rory. I suppose I know a lot of things I have never admitted to before. And tonight, I have done a lot of things I have never done before. An evening for firsts, all around.”

“An evening for firsts, and lasts.” He smiled down at her. But before she could ask exactly what ‘lasts’ might mean, he went on. “Ye may safely leave the statue to me.”

“I will. It is only right that you have the Diana as some recompense for the theft—it is not as if we could ever display it again…”

“Of course. Consider it done.”

And just like that, they were done. And she was done with excitement and daring-do. Because despite her brief foray as an amateur thief, she was still quiet little Mignon Blois who liked being home, safe and sound. Nothing could ever really change that.
 

Not even a handsome gentleman thief.

From whom she had to part—at least for now. “Thank you.” She extended her hand to him. “For everything.”

“Ye are most welcome. For everything.” His smile was everything kind and wonderfully rueful. “I would kiss ye, but Archie’s sensibilities are easily overset.”

It was a good thing it was dark, so he couldn’t see the blush sweeping across her face.
 

On second thought, she didn’t care if he saw it—she wanted him to. She wanted him to know how she felt about him. And she could only hope that feeling was mutual.
 

“Good night, Rory Andrews.”

His voice, soft and full of bittersweet pleasure, said it was. “Good night, my sweet Miss Blois.”

Mignon stood on the steps, and watched her heart drive away, and hugged her accomplishment, along with her cloak, tight. It had been a marvelous night. And she hoped, and even more marvelous tomorrow. But she wouldn’t know until then.

She would have let herself in with her key, safely stowed down her bodice, when the door was opened for her. “Mignon?”

It was her Papa, who stood on the doorstep staring at her. “Mignon, who was that man?”

“Papa do not tell me you have taken up snooping at the windows like old Mrs. Parkhurst?”

“Well, I could not help but notice that you seem to have been accompanied home by a tall, blue-eyed ruffian.”

“Yes, yes, my ruffian.” She urged Papa back inside and shut the door behind them, safe and sound. “Was he not marvelous?” She kissed her papa on both cheeks. “He has saved us, Papa. He has saved us all.”

Papa’s look was all narrow astonishment. “What do you mean?”

“Do you know what he has got hidden under the seat of that phaeton, Papa?”

Her father stilled, as if bracing for a blow. “No.”

She smiled to show him it was all going to be all right—that there was no blow to come. They had already finessed the
coup de grace
. “He has got your Verrocchio, Papa.”

Her father gasped, and clasped a hand to his chest.

Mignon guided her him to chaise. “He stole it for me, Papa. To save us.” She patted his hand to assure him. “To keep the Verrocchio from that awful specialist Mr. Cathcart. Is it not marvelous!”

Her papa began to regain a little of his color. “Stolen from Somerset House, this evening?”

“Yes. And I helped him. I was there, too.” Even she could hear the pride in her voice.

“My darling angel,” Papa breathed, and shook his head, as if he could not quite comprehend it. “It is astonishing. A marvel. Thank God for the criminal class.”