My Favorite Thief (8 page)

Her leg was throbbing violently now. She had to get back to the carriage soon, before it collapsed in spasm.

“What do you want from me?”

“Why, nae more than my due,” he assured her. “After all, I'm the one who had to look after ye all those years, after yer ma died. Had to keep bread in yer mouth and togs on yer back, an' a roof over yer head, too, when I could. Some chaps would've said sod it, an' let ye make yer own way, but not Boney Buchan. Yer mother swore on her deathbed that ye was my flesh and blood, an' even though she was a lyin' thievin' bitch, I decided to treat ye as if ye were.”

His ugly description of her mother had no effect on Charlotte. She didn't remember her well enough to feel anything for her except a detached pity for the torment she must have endured while living with her father. That and a complete bewilderment as to what had drawn her mother to him in the first place. It amazed Charlotte that the man standing before her actually thought he had looked after her. In some twisted corner of his mind, he believed that all those hideous, terrifying years, filled with drunkenness and ranting and violence, could be equated with care. But she didn't argue.

She had learned long ago that defiance would only be answered with brutality.

“How much?” she whispered.

“Five thousand pounds.”

She stared at him in shock.

“Ye heard me right,” he assured her, amused by the startled look on her face. “Five thousand pounds, an' that's bloody cheap when ye consider all I had to suffer on account of ye. If nae for ye I'd have nae been caught that day, Lottie. I'd nae have spent eight years in some shithole prison, wonderin' if I'd live long enough to be a free man again. An' all the while I was breakin' my back an' gettin' beat by the warders, ye was livin' in the bloody lap o' luxury, with some goddamn marquess payin' to have ye sit on velvet an' lick sweets all day.” He raised a leering brow. “Or was there somethin' else ye was lickin' for him that made him so willin' to keep ye?”

His crudeness revolted her. Everything about him revolted her. She swallowed thickly, fighting the nausea churning within her.

“I don't have five thousand pounds,” she told him helplessly. “I don't have that kind of money.”

“Do ye take me for a fool?” His face twisted with fury. “I know about yer precious marquess, Lottie. I been to Mayfair, an' I seen his fine house. So dinna be thinkin' ye can toss me a few quid and be done with it. I wants my money, an' I wants it quick.”

“I'm not lying to you,” Charlotte told him desperately. “I don't live in Mayfair, and the house I live in is leased. Lord Redmond pays for that directly, but our agreement is that I have to raise the funds to keep it running through donations. When I need anything else, I sign for it and the bills are sent to him. I don't have five thousand pounds.”

He spat on the ground in disgust. “Then ye'll just have to get it, won't ye?”

“I can't—Lord Redmond would never just give me that kind of money, and I haven't received any large donations—”

His enormous hands shot forward suddenly, grabbing her.

“Dinna tell me ye canna get it, Lottie,” he warned harshly, his breath hot and foul against her cheek. “I know where ye live, and I know where those other shits of his lordship live, too. If ye dinna want to see somethin' happen to yer precious new family, ye'll get me my money. Understand?”

He crushed her arms with bruising strength, reminding her of what he was capable. And suddenly she was seven years old again. Tears sprang to her eyes and her body began to quiver with an overwhelming mixture of fear and desperation and hatred.

“Yes,” she managed raggedly, fighting to keep her tears from falling. If he saw her cry, it would only make it worse. He always slapped her harder when she cried. “I'll get it.”

He glowered at her, his dark eyes burning with menace. “Ye've got four days. I'll come for it after that. And dinna be thinkin' of tellin' no one about this, Lottie,” he warned. “If I catch the peelers or anyone else sniffin' about for me, I'll make ye and yer precious family of swells sorry ye was ever born. Got it?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good.” Abruptly, he released her. “I'll see ye in four days.” He turned and sprinted away.

Charlotte pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Annabelle and Grace were probably searching for her by now. Breathing hard, she fought to regain some modicum of composure as she began to slowly limp back toward the elegant world that gleamed at the end of the alley.

“There you are!” called Annabelle, noticing her after she had emerged onto the street. “Where on earth have you been?”

“I just went into this shop,” Charlotte lied, pointing to the nearest store.

“We were worried about you.” Grace regarded her with concern. “Are you all right? You look terribly pale.”

“I'm a little tired. Can we go now?”

“Of course we can.” Grace took her arm and wrapped it around her own. “You just lean against me while we walk up to meet Oliver.”

“I'm so sorry we took so long. We should have realized it would be too much for you,” Annabelle apologized.

“Did you get something nice?” Charlotte asked, trying to shift their attention away from her.

“We got the most beautiful silk stockings for you—they're so light and sheer you'd almost think you were wearing nothing,” Annabelle said enthusiastically. “And then we saw the most gorgeous corset, and we knew you'd never buy such a fancy one for yourself, but Grace and I decided you really had to have it…”

Charlotte smiled and nodded, pretending to listen as her sisters chattered happily about all the lovely things they had bought for her.

She was trapped, she realized frantically as she limped toward Oliver and their waiting carriage.

Boney Buchan had found her. Until she paid him what he wanted, she was completely at his mercy.

Chapter Five

I
T WAS A PERFECT NIGHT FOR A JEWEL THIEF.

Diamonds, rubies, and emeralds glittered upon the milky breasts and sagging earlobes of nearly every woman in the ballroom, while the men accompanying them boasted sparkling stones in their cuffs and shirt studs. The air was laden with the scent of heavy perfume and richly spiced food, and eager gossip over the Dark Shadow's disastrous robbery attempt of two nights earlier was all but drowning out the lively strains of the orchestra. Everyone had an opinion on the mysterious jewel thief's identity, the severity of the wound he had suffered, and the extraordinary step he had taken by murdering Lord Haywood and abducting Lord Redmond's spinster ward. Harrison gripped the stem of his untouched wine glass as he studied the room, only half listening to the vigorous debates raging around him. His shoulder was throbbing and the sickly-sweet odors wafting through the air were threatening to trigger a headache.

If not for the brilliant jewelry circling around him, he would have stayed home and nursed his aching shoulder with a bottle of good French brandy.

“…then he jumps out of the carriage and disappears, just like that,” finished Lord Chadwick, his great, bloated chest puffed up with importance as he surveyed his fascinated audience.

“She's lucky he didn't kill her,” observed Lord Shelton, shaking his little balding head in disbelief.

“Why would he want to do a thing like that?” Lord Reynolds frowned. “Miss Kent is a cripple. She would hardly have been any threat to him.”

“No one has been as close to the Dark Shadow as she has,” Lord Shelton explained, as if it were obvious. “Given the chance, she might be able to identify him. Killing her would ensure that never happened.”

“The newspapers reported that she never saw his face—he kept his mask on the entire time,” pointed out Tony.

“Doesn't matter,” Lord Shelton insisted. “She might be able to spot some mannerism he has, or perhaps recognize the sound of his voice.”

“Can't imagine charging someone with murder based on their voice,” scoffed Lord Beckett dismissively, stroking the wiry gray point of his beard. “He could have disguised it while he was with her.”

“At any rate, he damned well got away.” Lord Chadwick took a hefty swallow of his wine, unnerved by the fact that he had come so close to death. “Now all the police can do is wait until he strikes again.”

“I doubt Miss Kent was much help to them.” Lord Reynolds's voice was laden with disapproval. “After all, she's well known for her sympathies toward criminals.”

“That's what comes from having bad blood,” complained Lord Shelton. “You can try to cover it up, but you can't change it, no matter how much money you throw at it.”

“You think Miss Kent has bad blood because she wants to help the less fortunate?” Harrison's tone was mild.

“Of course not,” Lord Shelton assured him. “Lots of ladies work to help the less fortunate—my own wife included. But there are reputable, well-established charities for these causes, which only ask that respectable women help to raise funds for them, by making handicrafts to sell at their bazaars, for instance, or getting their husbands to donate money.”

“Miss Kent lives with thieves and whores,” Lord Reynolds added. “No decent woman would permit herself to sleep under the same roof with the scum of society. It's shocking. I'm surprised Lord Redmond allows it.”

“She lives with them because she's one of them.” Lord Beckett's lip curled with disdain. “All of Redmond's wards came from thieves and whores—and every one of them was jailed at one time or another for their filthy, criminal ways. Redmond has done his best to clean them up, but you can't turn pigs into horses, and he's been a bloody fool to try.”

Harrison casually studied his wine, maintaining a demeanor of complete indifference. It had never occurred to him that Miss Kent had sprung from a criminal background herself as she primly lectured him on the unpleasantness of prison and the merits of leading a respectable life. The idea of her being jailed as a child bothered him. Although he was well aware that British jails regularly incarcerated urchins, somehow he always imagined that they were invariably a tough lot. Miss Kent scarcely fit his profile of a common street urchin.

“I believe she was working with the Dark Shadow to rob Chadwick that night,” Lord Shelton theorized. “If that maid hadn't come upon the two of them in Lady Chadwick's chamber, they'd have made away with all her jewels.”

“That's ridiculous,” objected Lord Chadwick. “Let's not forget that Miss Kent was an invited guest in my home, and that she is the ward of Lord Redmond.”

“Don't you think it strange Miss Kent just happened to come upon the Dark Shadow in your wife's chamber while everyone else was down at dinner?”

“But the Shadow is well known for breaking into houses while the owners are there,” Tony pointed out. “He likes to slip in and out with no one noticing.”

“But why was she upstairs when everyone else was dining?” Lord Beckett's eyes narrowed cryptically. “Seems suspect, if you ask me.”

“Miss Kent told my wife she wasn't feeling well and asked if she could be excused for a few minutes,” Lord Chadwick explained. “Since all of the guest chambers had been assigned to overnight guests, my wife quite sensibly told her to use her own chamber.”

“And then she just happens upon the Dark Shadow?” Lord Shelton shook his head, unconvinced. “She was going up to meet him, I say, and help him rob you blind.”

“But why on earth would she need to steal jewels from Chadwick?” wondered Lord Beckett. “After all, Redmond has money. He takes care of her, just as he does all his children.”

“The urge to steal is in the blood,” Lord Shelton explained authoritatively, “just like the urge toward violence or depravity. Can't be helped. That's why the only answer is to lock criminals up. Miss Kent's refuge house is just a place for the scum of society to fatten up on beef and cake while they trade tricks amongst each other before going out to take advantage of the rest of us law-abiding citizens. If I ever meet Miss Kent, I'll damn well tell her so.”

“It seems you're going to have your chance,” Lord Reynolds mused. “I believe that's she on the other side of the ballroom.”

Harrison raised his gaze in astonishment. A crowd of people was swarming around someone at the opposite end of the room, forming a glittering vortex of jewels and evening wear that prevented him from seeing the object of their attention.

And then suddenly someone moved, and he found himself staring at the lovely young woman who had saved his life.

She seemed fragile and uncertain to him amidst the curious crowd, which was showering her with excited questions. Her delicately structured face was pale and grave, although every now and then one of the tall young men standing on either side of her would make some comment that would elicit a forced smile from her. He did not know who her two young escorts were, but it was immediately apparent to him that they were extremely protective of her. One was supporting her by holding her hand upon his arm, while the other was effectively shielding her from the people clamoring around her. There were two women standing close to her as well, a stunningly beautiful blond woman who was answering the group's questions with easy charm, and a lovely dark-haired woman who smiled and nodded. Thrust into the glare of the enormous ballroom, Charlotte seemed smaller to him, smaller and shyer and afraid. He could almost feel her distress as she stood there, could feel the awkwardness and embarrassment gripping her as she endured the relentless scrutiny of the curious mob around her.

What the hell was she doing there, when it was so obvious she was finding the attention excruciating?

“Come on, Harry, let's go talk to her,” suggested Tony eagerly.

“No.”

“Don't you want to find out more about her encounter with the Dark Shadow?”

“Not really.”

Harrison swirled his wine around his glass as he studied her, affecting a cursory, almost bored inspection. She shouldn't be there, he thought as she valiantly tried to answer a question. Not because he feared she might reveal something about him that would lead to his capture. She had already proven her determination to protect him, even though he could not understand why. She probably assumed he was just another criminal who needed saving. A misguided victim of an unjust society, who only required a hot meal and a few words of wisdom and prayer to realize the error of his ways. And why shouldn't she think that? He had not given her any reason to think otherwise.

“I'm going out to get some air.” He set his untouched glass down on a table and strode toward the doors leading to the garden, leaving Tony free to join the crowd fawning around the newly renowned Miss Kent.

 

“…AND THAT IS WHY THESE POOR WOMEN AND CHILDREN
must be helped, not by sending them to workhouses, which only break their bodies and their spirits, but by creating a safe home for them where they can receive food and shelter and decent clothes, and where they are taught to read and learn a trade. It is only by equipping them to earn a decent wage that we help them to change their lives for the better.”

Charlotte clenched her fists and swallowed, trying not to let her audience see how nervous she was. She knew they were not really interested in what she was saying. They wanted to hear about her being held hostage by the Dark Shadow, not to be lectured on their moral obligation to help the poor. But Annabelle and Grace had advised her to take control of the conversation from the outset to try to elicit donations, and that was what she was doing.

“It is a noble cause you have taken upon yourself, Miss Kent,” Lord Reynolds remarked.

Yes,
she thought, relief trickling through her.
If I can get just one of you to understand and support my work, then surely others will follow.
“Thank you, Lord Reynolds. May I count upon you to make a donation?”

“Regrettably, I am unable to contribute to every new charity that comes along, and as I'm sure you are aware, there are hundreds of them. My wife is most active on behalf of the Church Pastoral-Aid Society and the Anti-Gambling League, to name but two. There are also a number of asylums currently operating in London which provide shelter and assistance to the poor, are there not?”

“They are always full and have to turn countless people away, so the streets remain filled with children and women who desperately need help,” Charlotte told him. “We need more institutions to aid these people, especially as thousands come to London in the hope of finding a better life, and instead are reduced to stealing in order to survive.”

“No one needs to steal,” objected Lord Beckett with a sanctimonious sniff. “There is always work to be had somewhere, providing they are able and willing. The problem is, they aren't willing.”

“Stealing is in their blood,” Lord Shelton added. “Can't be helped. You can take them in, Miss Kent, but I'll warrant they'll just be out preying upon innocent people the moment the mood strikes them. They're better off in jail. At least there they will learn that there are consequences for their actions.”

“Some of these children are put onto the streets by their parents at the age of six or seven,” Charlotte countered, trying to help them understand. “They sell bruised fruit or scraps of ribbon or cloth if they can find some, but if they can't, their parents force them to steal. If they come home with nothing, they are cruelly beaten and sent out again.”

She gripped the cool silk of her gown, trying not to think of Boney Buchan. This wasn't stealing, she told herself desperately. She would simply borrow whatever money she raised for her asylum and give it to him. Then she would find a way to pay it back. She had no idea how she would do that, but she couldn't focus on that. Her father had to be paid first. Her family had to be protected by whatever means necessary.

“My house of refuge is small,” she conceded, “but I believe if we can save even a few more children and young women from the streets, that will make an enormous difference. Our society will be better for it.”

“Indeed.” Lord Shelton sounded utterly unconvinced.

“Tell us about the Dark Shadow, Miss Kent,” said Lord Reynolds, bored with the discussion about her charity. “Did he threaten to kill you?”

Charlotte hesitated, reluctant to shift the conversation. She was losing them, she realized. Perhaps she should just answer a question or two about the Dark Shadow, just to keep their attention. “I don't think he ever said those exact words—”

“Did you think you were going to die when he took you hostage?”

“I was afraid, but I never believed he would actually kill me—”

“What about after he shot and killed poor Lord Haywood?” demanded Lord Beckett. “Weren't you terrified?”