A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers) (18 page)

“I’ve no doubt you’re capable, and I thank you in advance of your success. In the meantime, perhaps we should concentrate on the mystery man I am to meet on Wednesday.”

The chill of fear darted up his spine. “You can’t possibly still think to meet with this man after what happened in the park.”

She shook her head. “Why should one have anything to do with the other? It wasn’t the same man. Those were large, fully grown men. The boy at the station was just that, a boy.”

“He was a young man.”

“He wasn’t one of
those
men,” she countered and pointed one delicate finger at him. “You
know
he wasn’t one of those men. You remember everything and everyone. If that young man had been one of
those
men, you would have recognized him.”

“I am not infallible. And it was nearly dark. I make mistakes.”

“Yes, you do,” she agreed, her voice laced with amusement. “Telling me of your extraordinary memory, for example.”

“Esther—”

“I’d wager you’re regretting that just now.”

“Bitterly,” he grumbled and bit back an oath when her lips twitched.

He needed to take a different approach. Appealing to her sense of fear would get him nowhere. Esther wasn’t fearless, exactly—only small children and idiots were truly fearless—but she did have what he considered an underdeveloped sense of caution and an overdeveloped love of adventure. The combination was dangerous.

“Tell me this,” he tried. “Did you come to London to find this man?”

“Of course not, but now that he has found me, it is my responsibility to see that any threat he might pose is removed, for my family’s sake.”

“It is your responsibility to see the task done as quickly and efficiently as possible. Rather than wait until Wednesday, let me look for him tomorrow.”

“On your own?”

“It’s the wisest course of action, Esther. You know it is.” He held up a hand before she could argue. “You’ve some past experience working with criminals, but you’ve no experience tracking and capturing them. I do. You have other strengths. Why not put them to use?”

“Which others?”

“You’re clever, to start, and we need to organize the information we’ve learned thus far. We need a clear record of events and movements of all the players. Write everything down. When your mother left and when she returned. When your father lived in, then moved out of, the house on Rostrime Lane. When the grocer’s burned down, when it sold, and to whom. That sort of thing. Seeing it laid out might help us make a connection we’ve missed.”

Her eyes lit with interest. “You’re the one with the fine memory. Shouldn’t you do it?”

“I remember details, but I’m not the most adept at seeing patterns or connections. Which is why, when I work with Gabriel, I might construct the record, but I leave the interpretation of it to him. He’s like you; his perspective is more”—he paused, searching for the right word—“creative. We could work the same way, if you like. Or you may take the entire task on yourself.”

“I could see to it,” she replied after a moment’s consideration. “I could also
learn
to track and capture criminals, just as you did.”

“You could,” he agreed, and he meant it. He had an instinctual aversion to the notion of Esther chasing men down dark alleys, but there was no denying she was more than capable of learning the job. “I suspect you’d be a quick study, as you’ve half the necessary skills already. But you can’t acquire the other half overnight.”

She considered that for a long time. “No, not overnight,” she finally conceded and sighed. “I don’t like this sitting about whilst you go off.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She sighed again and slumped a little in her seat. “But you’re right. My work with Will was criminal, not investigative. They’re not the same thing.”

Damn it, she looked crestfallen. That wasn’t what he was after. He wanted to keep her safe, not render her miserable. “Why don’t we make a deal? Give me tomorrow to look for him, and when this is all over, I’ll teach you anything you want to know about being a private investigator.” The offer felt rather like an encouragement for her to pursue dangerous activities, but he pushed aside the initial uneasiness it brought him. Maybe there was something to her assertion that he could stand to be a little less stodgy, particularly where she was concerned. It was just a lesson, after all. Well…it was
another
lesson. But why shouldn’t Esther have all the lessons she wanted? Learn any skills she liked?

Why shouldn’t he be the one to offer them? Might be a bit fun, really. “Perhaps we could start with proper interrogation techniques,” he suggested.

“What’s wrong with my techniques?” she asked, straightening up.

He ran his tongue over his teeth. “When we captured your brother’s kidnapper last year, the first thing you did was stick a knife in his arm.”

“It was his shoulder,” she said primly. To his delight, a small, albeit slightly embarrassed, smile played at her lips. “And he deserved it.”

“Without question, but we needed him to talk, not faint.”

“Fair point.”

“Give me tomorrow to look for him, Esther. Please.” There was a good chance he’d need more than one day, but he’d cross that bridge if he came to it. “Do that, and I’ll show you how to get information out of a man without potentially killing him.”

“Look for him where? How?”

“In Spitalfields. In the usual manner.”

“But you’ve already looked in Spitalfields in the usual manner,” she pointed out. “You don’t even have a name. What do you hope to accomplish by asking after a young man with fair hair and ragged clothes, twice?”

“A young man of fifteen or sixteen, five feet six inches tall, nine stone. Long face, thin nose, small scar above the left eyebrow—”

“You
do
have an eye for detail.”

“I have experience looking for people who don’t care to be found. Do we have a deal, Esther?”

“Very well. I suppose a day wouldn’t hurt. And if you’re not successful, I still know where to find him on Wednesday.” She eyed him speculatively. “What else can you tell about how he looked?”

“Pointed chin, narrow jaw, high cheekbones—”

“Wait.” Her eyes lit with excitement. “Wait, I have an idea. I can sketch him.”

“You said you can’t sketch well from memory.”

“I can’t sketch well from mine. But maybe I can sketch from yours. Wait right here,” she repeated and leaped from her chair. “I’ll fetch some paper.”

* * *

Esther dashed from the room, through the library, and into the small office she’d noticed earlier. Unlike much of the rest of the house, this room suited Samuel. It was full of dark, rich colors, lovely old millwork, and comfortably oversize furniture. It was also surprisingly cluttered, with books and strange odds and ends piled haphazardly along the shelves and stacks of papers strewn across the desk. There was a light powdering of dust on some of the artwork and the fireplace mantel, leading her to wonder if the staff were not permitted in to clean.

Maybe she should have asked before coming in herself. She didn’t wish to intrude on his sanctuary.

She took two steps back and stopped, feeling ridiculous. Samuel hadn’t forbidden her entry to any part of the house. And she was already in the room. She might as well grab her paper before she left.

Feeling unaccountably guilty, she hurried to the desk and began quickly opening and closing drawers. Writing utensils, ledgers and bills, more odds and ends. When she reached a deep drawer on the bottom, she opened it fully expecting to find paper, but what she discovered was an enormous pile of letters.

She shut the drawer. Hard. Then she just stood there, bent over and with her hand still on the drawer handle.

Leave it alone. It is not your concern.

But she couldn’t leave it alone. In that split second the drawer had been open, she’d seen too much.

Slowly, she opened the drawer again and stared, dumbfounded, at the contents.

The letters, dozens of them, were all unopened, and every one of them was from the same individual.

Mrs. Rebecca Brass.

She picked up a letter from the top of the stack and ran her thumb over the name.

Unless she was living in a Brontë novel, and Samuel had a wife hidden away somewhere, Mrs. Rebecca Brass had to be his mother. Could be an aunt, she supposed. He’d never mentioned having an aunt. He’d certainly never mentioned having an aunt who sent him letters which he kept but never opened.

“What are you doing?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of Samuel’s low voice in the doorway.

“I wasn’t snooping,” she said quickly. “I was looking for paper.”

He jerked his chin at the other side of the desk. “Second drawer on the left.”

“Oh. Right. Thank you.” She looked down at the letter in her hand. There was absolutely no way to pretend it wasn’t there. And, frankly, she didn’t want to pretend. “Are these from your mother?” she asked, holding up the letter.

“Yes.”

“You’ve not opened them.” She looked down at the open drawer. “Any of them.”

A hardness settled over his features. “No.”

“Why not?”

“There is nothing she could possibly say that I care to hear.”

“I don’t understand.” Not the sentiment, and certainly not the frighteningly icy tone of his voice. It was so unlike him.

“It isn’t necessary for you to understand.”

It felt necessary to her. “Do you not speak with her at all?”

“No.”

“Will you tell me why not?”

His expression didn’t change, but Esther could sense the battle going on inside him. He stood unnaturally stiff and still, and his gray eyes alternated between searching her face and staring at the letter in her hand with such intense hatred it was a wonder it didn’t burst into flames.

At long last, he spoke and drew his finger down the scar on his face. “I told you how I acquired this.”

“Yes. Your father…” A terrible thought occurred to her. “Did she help him?”

“No. And, yes. She blamed me,” he said flatly. “In her considered opinion, a boy had no business interfering with a husband’s right to discipline his wife. When questions were raised regarding my injury, she concocted some preposterous story about my father and me having trouble with a horse.”

“And people believed her?” Her experience with horses was limited, but even she could tell the difference between a kick or bite from a horse and the wounds sustained in a beating from another human being.

“Of course not. Everyone knew what my father was. But people pretended to believe it. At her urging, I was sent to Flintwood to avoid further trouble. No doubt my father went back to drinking, and my mother went back to inventing stories to explain her injuries.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her heart breaking for a little boy, wounded and betrayed by those who should have loved and protected him.

He moved out of the doorway at last, crossing the room to take the letter from her hands. “I didn’t hear a word from her. Not one word until news of my knighthood reached the village and the truth about my childhood began to appear in the papers. The sanctity of marriage, it seems, is no match for public humiliation. Or maybe just a son with a fortune.”

“She might have seen the error of her ways.” Some part of Mrs. Brass might have been aware of her terrible mistakes even as she made them. It was shocking, the appalling things a person could say and do when they were afraid.

“She betrayed me,” he said, his voice giving away no emotion.

“Yes.” Unforgivably, to Esther’s mind. Afraid or not, one did not blame a child for the abuse suffered at the hands of his father. But she didn’t know the woman. Mrs. Brass was nothing but a name to her. She was Samuel’s mother. He’d loved her once. Loved her enough to stand between her and a violent man. Wasn’t he at least curious about what she might have to say? “She might be sorry.”

“Or she might not be. I don’t care either way.” He tossed the letter back with the others. “Second drawer on the left. Get the paper and let’s find your young man.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He just turned his back and strode away.

Esther watched him leave while a strange knot formed in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t understand the cause of it. Samuel had every right to refuse contact with Mrs. Brass. He had every reason.

Why, then, did his decision to ignore his mother leave her feeling ill at ease?

She didn’t mention the letters again as they worked on the sketch of the young man. Samuel remained stiff and withdrawn from her, even after they’d finished making a likeness of the mystery man and tried to replicate their success with their attackers in the park.

Troubled by his dark mood, she tried distracting him with random, irrelevant bits of conversation as they worked. Hoping he might take comfort from touch, she took every opportunity to make a physical connection—a hand on his arm, a brush of shoulders, a graze of fingertips. In an attempt to elicit a smile, she teased him when their efforts to re-create an attacker produced little more than a nondescript blob of a human face. Even Samuel’s memory, wonder that it was, could not see through near darkness.

An hour later, an urgent summons arrived from another client, and as Esther watched Samuel shrug into his coat in the foyer, she couldn’t help but feel as if she’d failed him. He’d not be looking so glum and distant if she hadn’t gone snooping through his desk.

“May I be of help?” she asked tentatively.

“No, it’s a private matter between a man, his wife, her lover, and her lover’s husband.” He gave a terse sigh. “This could take a while.”

“Is it absolutely necessary that you go? Couldn’t they all just draw lots for each other?”

He looked up quickly from straightening his necktie. He blinked once and then finally,
finally
, his lips curled in a smile. “I’ll suggest it. Come here.”

He didn’t wait for her to comply. Instead, he closed the distance between them in two long strides. Slipping his big hand behind her neck, he bent his head and took her mouth in a long, lush kiss that left her deliciously weak in the knees.