A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers) (16 page)

“You don’t know that.”
She
didn’t know that.

“You wouldn’t have come all the way to London only to give up on Rostrime Lane. You might have stood outside arguing with yourself for a good long while but, eventually, you would have knocked on the door.”

“But I didn’t.” That was the salient point.

“You didn’t have the good long while to argue, did you?”

“No, but—”

“Were you relieved that I went in your stead?”

“No,” she replied, a little surprised to realize it. “No, I wasn’t.”

“There you have it.”

“I—” She wanted to argue with him. Yes, she’d not been relieved to take the coward’s way out, but that hardly excused her lack of bravery. There came a point in a conversation such as this, however, where continued objections began to sound like frantic bids for reassurance, even compliments.

Tell me again how blameless I am. Convince me.

That wasn’t fair to Samuel and wouldn’t be good for her.

She gave him an appreciative smile. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll think on it some. Thank you.”

He made a face and rose from his chair. “Right. Fetch your veil. We’re going back.”

“What? Back to the house? Today?”

“Right now,” he replied, coming to stand in front of her.

“But we can’t. You only just left. What reasons could I possibly give for coming back?”

“You’re a clever woman. You’ll think of something on the way.” He held out his hand to assist her from the seat and sighed when she didn’t immediately take it. “Esther, if you don’t go back and see this done, you’ll always regret it. Clearly, nothing I can say will change that.”

He was right. If she didn’t fix this now, she could very well find herself back in London a decade from now, once again trying to free herself of old regret.

She gave him a sheepish smile. “Once we arrive… I might need to argue with myself a bit first.”

“I’ve the afternoon free, as it happens. Take all the time you like.”

This time when he offered his hand, she accepted it.

* * *

Esther went into number twenty-three alone. She didn’t need to argue with herself first, as she’d feared, and Samuel didn’t insist he come along, as she’d expected.

The master of the house, Mr. Thornhill, was a harmless old gentleman, he assured her. She’d be safe so long as she kept to the story Samuel had given and kept her veil down.

The staff greeted her with friendly, if slightly confused, smiles and ushered her into the front parlor. She took in the small room with its comfortably worn furniture and tried not to picture Will Walker sneaking about the place in the dark, slipping items into his bag. They’d not stolen from this couple. Her father had never laid eyes on these things, and yet she felt guilty all the same, because he would have. He would have stolen the lovely little clock on the mantel without a moment’s thought, and she would have helped him.

She shouldn’t be here.

Mr. Thornhill didn’t appear to begrudge the unexpected visit. An older man with a protruding belly and a puff of white hair, he smiled broadly at her as they took their seats.

“You are Sir Samuel’s client, then?” Mr. Thornhill inquired. “He mentioned a widow in search of a lost uncle. Or was it your uncle’s lost friend? I do apologize. My memory is not what it once was.”

“My uncle’s lost friend,” she replied. “My uncle would search for Mr. Smith himself, but his health is failing. He wants very much to reestablish a correspondence with his childhood friend whilst he is still able. I know Sir Samuel has already made inquiries on my behalf, but I had rather hoped to find your wife at home. I understand she was unavailable this morning.”

It was not the most creative of excuses for her visit, but it was believable.

“Mrs. Thornhill left a half hour ago, I’m afraid. She’ll be disappointed to have missed both visitors today.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” It might have been helpful to speak with the woman. As it was, she was left searching for any inquiry Samuel may have neglected to make in his earlier visit. “I was wondering, Mr. Thornhill, might Mr. Smith have left behind an item or two? A personal token such as a letter or—”

“Funny you should ask. Sir Samuel inquired after the same this morning and I told him there was nothing about the house, but then Mrs. Thornhill reminded me of this.” He hefted himself out of his seat and retrieved a pocket watch and fob from the drawer of a nearby desk. “Found it when we first took possession of the house from Mr. Brumly. He didn’t recognize it. Said it must have belonged to a previous tenant. We put it away in a cupboard thinking its owner might come back for it. That must have been…oh, many, many years ago. Quite forgot about it.”

She accepted the watch from him and stared at the large, elaborate letter
B
engraved on the case. “It’s the wrong initial, I’m afraid.”

“And so I told my wife. But she says, sometimes, the initial isn’t that of the owner’s, but of someone important to the owner. A gift from a wife, a son, or a daughter.” He gave her a playful wink she imagined he’d not have dared with an unmarried woman. “Or a sweetheart.”

Generally, such a gift would include a small inscription placed out of the way. One inscribed the inside of a ring in such a manner or put a few heartfelt words on the back of an item. One did not brand one’s initial on the front. Then again…

The letter
B
was her mother’s first initial. And her mother was just the sort of woman to brand a gift. She caught Mr. Thornhill’s questioning gaze. “Oh, my uncle once mentioned that Mr. Smith was briefly engaged to a Miss Brines. She passed away before the wedding.”

“How tragic. Perhaps he engraved the watch himself, in memory of her.” Mr. Thornhill shook his head sadly. “It must have torn his heart to have lost it.”

“Yes, I imagine it did. Mr. Thornhill, if you would allow me to purchase this from—”

“Purchase? I won’t hear of it. It’s not mine to sell, is it? You take it. Give it to Mr. Smith when you find him. Better yet, have your uncle return it to him.” He nodded, pleased with the idea. “There’s a fine start to a renewed friendship, eh?”

“I can’t. It may not even belong to Mr. Smith.”

“Then send it back, if you like. Mind you, it won’t be doing me and the wife a spot of good, sitting on the cupboard shelf.”

“But it has value. Let me pay—”

“I mean no offense, Mrs. Ellison, but that watch isn’t worth the time it would take out of my day to sell it. It’s not of the highest quality.” He reached over to lightly pat her hand. “You take it for now. If you can’t find your Mr. Smith, maybe it’ll bring your uncle a bit of comfort to have something of his friend’s to keep.”

She couldn’t claim to be an expert on men’s watches, but she’d helped her father steal and fence a few, and she was fairly certain the old man was deliberately understating its value. The watch had a bit of wear and tear, but it could be pawned for a few pounds at least. But Mr. Thornhill was determined to be generous, refusing several more offers of payment, until Esther was finally forced to accept the watch as a gift.

“Thank you. This means a great deal to me. To my family. Thank you.”

“It is my pleasure.”

* * *

Once inside the carriage again, Esther pulled the watch from her bag and handed it to Samuel. “He had this. I think it may have been a gift from my mother.” She tapped the enormous engraved
B
. “Beatrice. My mother didn’t like to be forgotten.”

Samuel let out a low whistle. “That is a bold reminder.”

“She was a bold woman.”

He took the watch from her and studied it carefully, turning it over in his hands. “It’s too old.”

“What? What do you mean? How do you know?”

“The case is fifty years old at least.”

“Is it?” She snatched the watch back as disappointment set in. “How can you tell?”

“The design mostly. The wear as well. Although it is possible she bought it secondhand and had it inscribed.”

“Oh, yes, of course. It may have already been inscribed, for that matter.” Her mother would have appreciated the convenience of a ready-made gift. “Realistically, there’s every possibility that it’s not connected to my family at all. Still…” She fiddled with the watch a moment longer, then opened her bag and dropped it inside.

“Do you feel better for having come back?” Samuel asked.

“I do.” She felt a tremendous sense of relief. “Thank you for bringing me.”

“It was no trouble.” He regarded her with an inscrutable expression. “I was thinking about something whilst you were inside.”

“Oh?” She felt a thrill of excitement, and her blood warmed with a sudden awareness of his closeness in the carriage. Was he thinking of the way he’d been staring at her at breakfast, his piercing eyes so full of wicked interest? She certainly hoped so.

Just in case his thoughts ran in that direction, she tugged the corner of the drapes firmly closed. Carriages were such wonderfully confined contraptions, and so conveniently private.

She leaned forward a little, and caught the subtle spice of his soap. “What were you thinking?”

“Do you remember when we found the diamonds Will had stolen from the duchess?”

She sat back again, deflated. This was not the direction she’d been hoping his thoughts had taken. “Difficult to forget.”

“You were upset that Will had broken the tiara so it would fit behind the picture frame,” Samuel said. “You wanted it repaired before it was returned to the family, and you insisted on paying for the repairs yourself.”

Rightfully so. She’d played a role in stealing the tiara, and then her father had destroyed it, wholly unconcerned with the skill and talent that had gone into creating such a magnificent piece of art. The philistine. “I remember. What of it?”

“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and tender. “You can’t hope to repay every shilling you helped your father steal.”

Esther blinked once at the endearment.

To the best of her recollection, no one had ever called her sweetheart before. Nor darling, pet, poppet, love, or any of the countless little terms of affection she’d heard other men offer their wives and daughters. She’d simply never been any of those things to a man. Any man.

She had the most extraordinary reaction to Samuel calling her sweetheart. Her lips curved involuntarily, her heart sped up, and a swell of pleasure built in her chest. She suddenly felt more important, special, singled out in the best possible way.

It was a silly response to what was likely an offhand comment, but that didn’t seem to matter. She very much liked being Samuel’s sweetheart.

She wished she could take the time to savor the feeling, but Samuel was looking at her expectantly, waiting for a response.

“I know I can’t repay every shilling,” she replied. “I don’t even know the names of anyone else I helped swindle. But I know his. I can repay him. I have to try.” She shrugged. “It isn’t always enough to be sorry. There is something to be said for putting a bit of effort into atonement.”

“So there is. There is something else I didn’t ask before we left. Why did you lie about how you came to know Mr. Smith was your natural father? Why didn’t you tell me about the six pounds?”

“For the same reason you didn’t want me to shave your beard.”

Samuel nodded, then regarded her thoughtfully. “Renderwell once described you as wounded.”

“Did he?” She made a face at that. “Can’t say I care for the description.”

“I thought it apt at the time. But not now,” Samuel said softly. “Mending. That’s a better description for you, I think. You’re mending.” He reached for her hand and pressed a soft kiss into her palm. “It’s not an ugly scar, Esther. Not anymore.”

* * *

The sun was setting by the time Samuel returned Esther to the house. He left immediately after seeing her settled, claiming a need to follow up on inquiries he’d made into recent attacks in Hyde Park. And, of course, he had other,
paying
clients who demanded at least some of his attention.

Remembering their kisses, and that wonderful look over the kitchen table that morning, Esther waited for his return with excited expectation. Perhaps that evening he would turn his wicked interest into wicked intent.

She took dinner later than she would have liked, hoping he might be back to join her. Afterward, she read in the parlor until her eyelids began to droop. She might have fallen asleep right there, but Sarah’s voice pulled her from her half slumber.

“Mrs. Ellison?” Sarah looked over from where she was holding back the edge of one parlor drape. “Mum, come here and have a look at this.”

“What is it?”

Esther set down her book and rose just as Sarah turned to the window again and frowned.

“Oh, it’s gone now.”

“What’s gone?” Esther joined her and peered into the lighted street and deep shadows beyond. “What did you see?”

“I don’t know. A dark figure just there at the edge of the Ginley house.” She pointed at a home across the way and one door down.

A dark figure? The hair on the back of Esther’s neck stood on end. “One of their staff?”

Sarah shook her head. “Awful short to be a body. I thought it was one of the bushes until it moved.”

“Maybe it was a dog.”

“Bit tall for a dog.” She glanced over her shoulder at Harry, who was sprawled out in the middle of the floor. “Most dogs.” Her gaze shot back to Esther. “Do you think it might be someone skulking about the place?” She hunched her shoulders and bent her knees. “Crouched down all sneaky?”

“I don’t know.”

She thought of the men in the park. There was no reason to believe they’d followed after the attack. But the bushes down the street would be a fine place to hide and watch Samuel’s house.

Tension pulled across her shoulders, and her heart began to beat a little faster. She leaned closer to the glass, and Sarah followed suit. For several long seconds, they stood there, shoulder to shoulder, staring silently into the darkness.

Suddenly, the drapes on one of the Ginley windows shifted, and a weak beam of light escaped to illuminate a long, thin figure in the grass.