A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers) (24 page)

He was in more trouble than he was letting on. “Edmund, answer me honestly. Are you wanted for a crime?”

“No. It ain’t that. I done some things…but no one’s looking for me. Except maybe Victor and John, and some of their ilk. I owe ’em favors. They can’t collect if they can’t find me.” He rubbed the heels of his hands up and down his thighs in agitation. “I should go.”

“If you would agree to meet with me and Sir Samuel somewhere—”

“Maybe ’nother time,” he replied in a tone that clearly said
probably not ever
. “Wouldn’t mind seeing you again, though.”

He stopped rubbing his hands to resettle the cap on his head.

“I should like to see you again, too.” She’d like to see more of him right now. Their meeting was too quick. She still had so many questions. But he was sixteen, frightened, and determined to leave. There was nothing she could say that would convince him to stay. She could, however, make certain he was safe. She reached into her bag again and grabbed her coins. “I want you to take this.”

“I told you, I don’t want your help. I’ll take care of my own troubles.”

She took his hand and pressed the money into it. “I have another little brother, very near your own age. Right now, he is at a very fine school acquiring a very fine education, whilst wearing very fine clothes and eating very fine food. This coin comes from the same coffers that pay for all his finery. You are also my brother, Edmund. Please, let me help you.”

He stared at their joined hands a long time, his brow furrowed. At last, he nodded and curled his fingers around the coins. “All right.”

“I do have some conditions. I want you to go to Brighton. Alone.” The cleaner air would do him good, and the distance from London would keep him safe. “Take rooms there and write to me as soon as you are settled. We’ll decide together what is to be done next.”

“I don’t know where to find you.”

“Send the letter to the offices of Sir Samuel Brass and Sir Gabriel Arkwright. They’ll see it reaches me.”

“The Thief Takers?”

“They’re my friends. They’ll not open your letter. I promise.” She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “I have trusted you. Now you must trust me.”

“Aye. I suppose I can…” He opened his palm and glanced down at the coins. His eyes flared wide. “Jesus.” He quickly closed his hand again. “I can’t take this. It’s too much. It’d take me years to pay you back.”

“It’s not meant to be paid back. You will take it, go to Brighton straightaway, and write me. Promise me.”

“Aye.” He nodded rapidly, shoved the coins in a pocket, then placed his palm over the pocket as if concerned the coins might jump out again. “Aye, I promise. I’ll not disappoint you. I swear it.”

“Good. Good. Now, I’m very sorry, but I have to ask for the picture.”

“Right. Right.” He gave her the folded image. “That’s for the best, isn’t it?”

“It is. I was—” She broke off at the loud grind and huff of an engine. The sound of it nearly scared Edmund off the bench.

He stood up, nervous eyes darting about the station. “I can’t stay any longer. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I understand. Wait.” She reached out and snagged his arm when he tried to turn. “One more question. What was he like, our father?”

For a brief second, the fear and sadness left his face. “Oh, he was a good sort, he was. A proper da. Took care of me and my mum. I never went hungry, and I never felt the back of his hand. He even made an honest woman of her before he died. He was a good sort.” He shrugged and smiled. “For a thief.”

“For a thief? Wasn’t he in shipping? Or a grocer?”

“Our da?” He shook his head. “Might have played the part of a tradesman now and then, but he were a trickster through and through. Old man Smith were the grocer. Had himself a place in Spitalfields for a time and another in Whapping and Shadwell. I have to go now.” He slipped free of her grasp. “I’ll write. I promise.”

“But—” She reached for him again, but it was no use. He’d already turned his back. A few more steps and he disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

Samuel stepped out of the office and, for a full minute, did nothing but stare at Esther’s profile. Slowly, the sick worry he’d carried since their argument the day before faded away. He wanted to sweep her up into his arms, run his hands over every inch of her, but watching her would have to do.

She was safe. She was completely, utterly unharmed.

Maybe not entirely unharmed, he corrected. One didn’t come away from such an encounter wholly unscathed. She was sitting still as a statue, staring off into the throng of travelers. But she wasn’t watching them. He could tell from the way she held herself that she was looking without seeing. She was lost in her own thoughts.

He approached her slowly, giving her plenty of time to notice him before he placed his hand on her shoulder.

She tipped her head back to look at him. “Samuel.”

Her voice sounded distant and a little hollow.

“Are you ready to leave?” he asked.

She turned to look in the direction Edmund had gone, then gave a little shake of her head, as if dragging herself back to the present. “Yes. Yes, of course. No point lingering about here, is there?”

When she stood, he took her hand and guided it to his elbow. He kept his peace as they walked from the station to his waiting carriage. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to learn of the existence of an adult sibling and the death of a parent in the course of a single conversation, but one could assume it was, at the very least, unsettling. Whatever needed to be said would wait until he was certain Esther was all right.

Expecting a silent carriage ride, he was surprised when Esther pulled up her veil the moment the door was closed. “How much did you hear?”

“All of it. I was on the other side of the window, you’ll recall.” And nearly dove out of it when the young man had suggested the two of them board the train.

“I wasn’t sure how well you could hear.”

“I heard perfectly.” He studied her a moment before continuing. She was paler than he’d like, but her eyes were clear and dry, and the hands in her lap were still and relaxed. He didn’t need to wait. “You gave him the six pounds.”

“Yes.”

“Did it occur to you he might be lying?”

“I’m a Walker,” she reminded him as the carriage jolted forward. “Of course it occurred to me.”

“And still you gave him the six pounds.”

“It was the best option at hand. At worst, he is a liar and I’ve allowed myself to be swindled out of six pounds. That would be galling, but hardly the stupidest thing I’ve done in my life. Had I not given him the six pounds, then the stupidest thing I will have ever done in my life is to turn my back on my own brother just so I could put my six pounds back in my chest.”

“You’ll investigate his claim, of course.”

“Certainly I will.” She looked down and began tugging off her gloves. “I’ll ask Renderwell to hire a private investigator directly.”

He cleared his throat. Ask Renderwell indeed.

She glanced up and made a face. “Well, not you.”

“Not me? Why not me?”

A corner of her mouth curved up. “You’ve far too many scruples.”

“Too many?” How the devil did a man have too many scruples?
Far
too many?

“Yes. I want a man who will look into the affairs of my possible brother without passing judgment on him.”

“What do you expect will be found?”

“I’ve no idea,” she replied, tucking her gloves away into her bag. “He said only that he had lost his job and fallen in with a bad lot.”

Which meant a gang of criminals, no doubt. “I’m not the police, you know.”

“You were a police officer once.”

“Yes, and a good one.”

The half smile returned. “I daresay you were.”

“Do you know what makes a man a good police officer, Esther?”

She thought about it, shrugged. “Courage, a strong sense of duty, and strict adherence to the law of the land.”

“Sound judgment guided by compassion,” he informed her. “That’s all. If this young man is your brother, then it would be foolish, cruel, and a detriment to society to deny him the opportunity to become a productive citizen in favor of punishing him for a stolen trinket or crust of bread.”

It occurred to him that he’d given more speeches in the last week than he had in the last decade. Esther did have a talent for…drawing him out, he supposed.

“But what if his crime was more severe than a stolen crust of bread?” she asked.

“I’ll not turn a blind eye to murder, if that’s what you’re asking. Would you?”

“Of course not. But there is quite a bit in between.”

“That’s where the sound judgment comes in.”

She cocked her head at him, her expression thoughtful. “Is it important to you that I should ask you to see to this?”

He didn’t know how to answer that. It damned well was important to him. But not because of the boy. And it had nothing to do with judgment and compassion. Everything he’d said about both was true, but it wasn’t why he wanted the job.

He wanted it for one reason, and one reason only. Because it was important to
her
.

“Is it?” she asked again.

“Yes.”

“I see…” Smiling a little for the first time since their argument, she stuck out her hand like a man of business. “Then you have the job.”

Samuel sat at his desk in the study and stared at the glass of whiskey in his hand. He scarcely remembered pouring it. He didn’t even remember wanting it. It had just been something to do, a mindless act to occupy his hands, when what he’d really wanted to do was grab Esther before she could dart upstairs and lock herself away in her chambers.

He’d wanted a word. Maybe more than a word. Instead he’d poured himself a drink.

He didn’t understand it. For a moment or two in the station, and again in the carriage, he’d felt as if the gap between them had narrowed, the roughest edges of their argument had dulled. But the moment they’d arrived at the house, she’d withdrawn without a word, without so much as a backward glance.

It was as if she’d given up.

We are not compatible people.

I should like to be friends.

To hell with that. Twice. Ill-matched or not, they weren’t going to be just friends.

He took a long swallow of his drink and reveled in the angry burn of liquid in his throat.

Why the devil had she given up? Because she was still angry? That was no excuse.
He
was still angry—furious in fact, and growing more agitated by the second. But he’d not given up. Surely she didn’t believe that a single heated argument meant the end of them. She couldn’t possibly imagine he would let her go so easily.

She had to be waiting for an apology. Probably she took the innocuous events at the station as proof that she’d been right to insist on going in the first place. She’d come home without a scratch, after all. Obviously he’d worried over nothing. To hell with that as well.

He took another sip before setting his drink aside and decided that, no, she wasn’t getting an apology.

She was, however, going to talk to him. They didn’t have to argue. Neither of them needed to apologize. All he wanted was a promise that she’d never again ask him to hide behind her damned skirts. And then they’d put the absurd business of being just friends behind them.

Samuel clung to his righteous anger for a solid six seconds. Which was exactly how long it took him to reach Esther’s room…and discover the sound of her crying.

Her door was barely ajar, but he could hear her every sob, every hiccup. He could feel them, like sharp stabs to his chest.

Damn it.
Damn it.

The door opened silently at the gentle nudge of his hand, and he saw her sitting on the foot of the bed with the dog, her legs curled into her chest and her forehead resting on her knees. She had a piece of paper gripped in her hand, and her other arm draped over the beast’s hulking form. Her shoulders shook with every jagged breath. It tore at him.

As he crossed the room, he had to remind himself that he was good at this sort of thing. He had an inordinate amount of experience patting hands and offering condolences. He’d held Esther in the carriage after the attack in the park, hadn’t he? He knew how to comfort.

And yet his hand was shaking a little as he reached for her shoulder. She hadn’t been crying in the carriage.

As he leaned closer, he saw the paper she held was the record of events she’d been working on. It was half crumpled in her hand, but he could clearly make out where she’d marked her father’s death.

“It’s all right, Esther.”

At the sound of his voice, she leaped to her feet like a scalded cat. Puffy, red eyes glared at him accusingly. “What are you doing in here?”

“I heard you crying. It’s all right—”

“Of course it is.” She swiped at her cheek with the back of her hand and frowned a little as Goliath hopped down from the bed and trotted from the room. “I’m perfectly fine. It’s only residual nerves, I’m sure. Or I’m coming down with something. I’m prone to crying jags when I don’t feel well—”

“That’s not what I meant.” And he was fairly certain she was lying about the crying jags. He reached for her hand, only to miss when she stepped away. “It’s all right to…not be all right.”

She sniffed, looked away, and said nothing.

“Why don’t we sit down together?” he suggested.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

He closed the bedroom door, then took a seat himself and patted the mattress beside him. “Sit down, Esther. Please.”

“I said I’m quite all right,” she snapped.

But she wasn’t angry. He knew embarrassment when he saw it.

“You’re rude is what you are,” he returned. “If you won’t sit down, I’ll have to get up. And I only just sat down.”

Her mouth set in a mulish line, but after a moment, she relented. To his surprise, she settled next to him rather than take a seat at the far edge of the bed. Her skirts brushed his legs and he caught her faint scent of roses.

“I’m sorry you’ll not have the chance to meet your father,” he said and wished he could put his arm around her, but he wasn’t sure she’d allow it.

She was quiet for so long, he began to wonder if she intended to simply bite her tongue until he gave up and went away. But then she pulled her legs up again, sighed heavily, and rested her cheek on her knees.

“It’s not that,” she said quietly. “Not entirely. It’s only…” She looked down at the paper still in her hand. “All this time I’ve had a brother. I imagined it possible, even likely George Smith had other children, but… I don’t know. I suppose I imagined that they had all been cared for as I was. These past few years, I’ve been comfortably settled in the country, and he was suffering in poverty. He lost his father, then his mother. Our grandfather wanted nothing to do with him. He was all alone. If someone had just told me. If I hadn’t waited so long… He shouldn’t have been alone.”

There was still the chance that Edmund was a swindler, but he rather doubted the possibility would cheer her up. “It’s unfair, but that’s not your fault.”

“I know.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “But so many other things are.”

And with that, she let the paper fall to the floor, put her forehead back on her knees, and wept.

He did put his arm around her now. He couldn’t have stopped himself if he wanted to. The sound of her weeping made him want to…break something. And then maybe fix it. Which clearly made no sense, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that if Esther was crying, then surely he should be fighting and/or fixing something.

He needed a dragon to slay, or a broken wing to mend. And he had neither.

Instead, he rubbed her arm, stroked her hair, and murmured soothing nonsense against her temple until, at last, her sobs quieted to sniffles.

“There now,” he crooned and wedged his finger under her chin so he could lift her face. “There now. That’s better, isn’t it?”

She looked at him with mild disgust. “No.” Her nose sounded a bit stuffy. “It’s humiliating.”

“Nothing shameful in tears.” He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her.

“Oh, yes,” she drawled, leaning away a little to wipe her face. “I’m sure you indulge regularly.”

“Not regularly.”

She slid him a skeptical look. “You cry?”

Pure masculine pride compelled him to repeat, “Not regularly.”

“Crying as an infant doesn’t count,” she muttered, looking away again.

He gave into the urge to tuck a loose lock of blond hair behind her ear. It felt like silk between his fingers. “You know I met Renderwell on the Crimean Peninsula.”

“Yes.” She sniffled again and frowned a little at the sudden change in subject. “He was your commanding officer.”

He nodded and, because she didn’t protest his touch, brushed his thumb along the soft curve of her jaw. “There was a dog that used to come into our camp,” he said, reluctantly withdrawing his hand. “He would beg scraps from every soldier he could find, but at night, he’d come in my tent and sleep at my feet. Damned uncomfortable. But I liked him. I liked that, for whatever reason, I was his favorite companion.”

“If something bad is going to happen to the dog, I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Nothing bad happened to Richard.”

“Richard?” She gave him a pitying look and balled up the now very damp handkerchief in her hand. “Dreadful name for a dog.”

“Fair sight better than Harry. He was Richard the Lionheart.”

“Oh.” She smiled a little. “I take it back. That’s a fine name. What happened to him?”

“He returned home with me and—”

“You brought him back with you?” She used her fingers to wipe away a tear she missed on her chin. “To England?”

“I did. He lived a long and happy life. Spent every night at my feet and never failed to greet me at the door. Fine dog, Richard.” He dug into his pocket, pulled out his extra handkerchief, and held it out to her. “I wasn’t an infant when he passed away at a ripe old age.”

Her hand paused in midreach for the offered linen. “You wept over your dog?”

“I did. And I’m not ashamed of it.” He pressed the handkerchief into her hand. “But if you tell anyone else, I’ll call you a filthy liar.”

She produced a small, wet laugh. The sound of it made him feel as if at least a few dragons lay dead at his feet.

* * *

Esther used the new handkerchief to finish drying her face—her no doubt exceedingly puffy face. It wasn’t often that she cried. It had been years, in fact. But if memory served, it wasn’t a pretty sight. There was blotching involved.

She should make some excuse to gain her privacy. Samuel would probably welcome the opportunity to escape. Then again, he’d come in of his own accord.

And she didn’t want him to leave. Not yet. She’d been so certain during their carriage ride to the station that he’d washed his hands of her. But then he had held her hand. Afterward, he had insisted on investigating Edmund for her. He had sought her out in her room and held her as she cried.

She wasn’t sure what to make of that. Those weren’t apologies or declarations. But they spoke of affection and engendered a hope that, quite frankly, baffled her. She didn’t know what to do with it.

Samuel didn’t want
that woman
. She wasn’t good enough.

So what was she hoping for? Friendship? She’d snatched at that possibility earlier, but it had been an act of desperation. And now that desperation made her feel small and pitiful, like she was begging for scraps of him.

I’ll be whatever you want me to be. Even if it’s only a friend.

She hated the way that made her feel. Hated that she hoped for it even now after he’d rejected the offer. But she still didn’t want him to leave. Not yet.

She fished about for some suitably neutral topic to keep him with her and landed on, “Edmund didn’t leave those rats on the doorstep.” Which was something of a clumsy transition from the Crimean War and a loyal dog, but Samuel didn’t seem to mind.

“Likely not,” he replied. “But it might have been John Porter or his friends.”

“Or Harry.”

“Goliath.”

She smiled a little when he did, but it seemed only an echo of the comfortable teasing they’d known before their argument. “Do you think they were the men at the park? John and his friends? There were three of them.”

“Possibly.”

“Could they have followed us here?”

“They wouldn’t need to if they recognized me,” he said with a shake of his head. “It’s no secret where I live.”

“Perhaps I should have stayed at the hotel.” The idea that she might have led violent thugs to Samuel’s home made her feel ill.

“I can’t control who comes and goes from a hotel,” Samuel replied. “You’re safer here.”

She might be, but the same could not be said for the rest of the house. “But if—”

“As long as you’re in London, you’ll stay here.”

The steely tone of his voice offered no room for discussion. Another time she might have argued anyway, but she just didn’t have the heart for it today. “I suppose. I won’t be here for much longer at any rate.”

“You still have your extra day. Why not use it to meet with your grandfather?” he suggested. “He must have been the one who wrote the letter you found.”

The grocer in Spitalfields, she thought. Yes, the letter must have come from mean old Mr. Smith. “Why would he send a letter if he wanted nothing to do with his grandchildren?” she wondered aloud. “I might need more than a single day if he’s not quickly found.”

“Your sister won’t be back from Scotland for a while yet.” There was a slight hesitation before he spoke again. “Are you in a hurry to leave?”

“No.” Oh, that had come out much too quickly. She felt the heat of embarrassment at the back of her neck. She didn’t want him to know how desperately she longed to stay with him. “This John needs to be found as well,” she said hastily.

Samuel rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “We have his name and the names of his friends. Provided he has not gone to ground, it should be relatively easy to find him.”

And then what, she wondered. Could they convince him he was mistaken in thinking she was Esther Walker? Could they trap him in blackmail? “Maybe you were right. Maybe I should not have come to London. I’ve put my family in danger.”

“Your family? Is that one of the other things you believe is your fault?” he asked tenderly. When she remained silent, he dipped his head to catch her gaze. “You haven’t put your family in danger. Not directly. Your presence in London doesn’t offer any clues as to their whereabouts.”

She gave him a wry look. “I believe I made a similar observation during our argument in the parlor. You didn’t appear convinced at the time.”

“At the time, I was trying to dissuade you from going to Paddington station.”

“Dissuade,” she murmured, remembering the raging fury in his eyes. She unfolded her legs to hang them over the bed. “Not quite how I would put it. You keep your temper well hidden, Samuel.”

His eyes tracked down to the big hand resting between them on the mattress. “I keep it under control.”

Because his father had not? “Are you afraid of becoming like your father?” she asked before she could think better of it.

He frowned a little at the question but didn’t seem to take offense. “I was for a time. When I was much younger. And you’re afraid you’ll become like yours,” he guessed. “Like Will Walker. Something we have in common.”

She stifled a sigh. He still didn’t understand, still only saw what he wanted to see. “It’s not something we have in common, Samuel. You were never like your father. I am still like mine.”