A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers) (27 page)

Her name would not be recorded in the family Bible. Mr. George Smith might be happy to receive her, even acknowledge her as his granddaughter, but she was not a true Smith. Not a legitimate member of the family. She was…not quite good enough.

She shook off the sense of disappointment. There was no point in dwelling on it. And she still had so many questions. There were pieces to his story that didn’t quite fit, even if he had managed to remember exact dates incorrectly.

“Mr. Smith, may I inquire how long you continued to write to my mother without receiving a reply?”

“I wrote twice without answer as I recall. Three months, I suppose?”

“Is that all? Are you certain?”

“More or less.”

That couldn’t be right. That couldn’t
possibly
be right. The letter in the desk had been written five years after her mother’s death. “You didn’t attempt to write her again some years later?”

“Certainly not. I’m not one to press a lady. And I had my pride, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmured, careful to hide her astonishment. If Mr. Smith’s final attempt to contact her mother had been made only months after he’d received her last letter, then that meant… Mr. Smith had been corresponding with a dead woman for
years
.

Esther’s mind whirled with all the possible explanations, but it kept returning back to one. “Did you happen to tell her of your falling out with your son?”

“I did.”

And then the letters from her dead mother had ceased. Will Walker had taken her to burglarize the house on Rostrime Lane at nearly the same time.

She swallowed around a lump in her throat. “Who was the private investigator you hired to find my mother in the beginning?”

Mr. Smith absently rubbed the handle of his cane. “I don’t recall. I only remember that he came highly recommended and that he did not earn his commission. It was an upstart competitor of his who found your mother for me. He approached me with the promise to deliver your mother’s address within a week in exchange for a moderate reward and letter of reference. I agreed and he delivered.”

“What was his name? The upstart?”

“Ah, yes.
His
name I remember.” He smiled a little in memory. “Hernando Gutierrez. Quite the charming young Spaniard. And exceedingly obliging. He saw to the delivery of the letters himself.”

Hernando Gutierrez. Uncle Hernan. Her father’s favorite alias.

Oh, Will Walker, you tremendous bastard.

“Will Walker used my grandfather to keep track of my father.” Esther relayed this bit of information to Samuel the second she stepped back in the carriage and shut the door. “He wrote to Mr. Smith pretending to be my
dead mother
.”

It was probably a testament to how often Samuel encountered the truly bizarre in his line of work that he met this revelation with just one raised brow. “Sounds like something Will might have done.”

“It’s appalling.” Which,
yes
, meant it was something Will would have done.

He made a prompting motion with his hand. “Tell me what all was said.”

As the carriage rolled toward Belgravia, Esther provided Samuel with a detailed recounting of her conversation with her grandfather. She pulled the timeline she had created from her bag and used it as a visual guide in her explanation. She told him about Uncle Hernan and her grandfather’s correspondence with her long-dead mother. She mentioned the fictional residence in Kent and pointed out that the burglary on Rostrime Lane had occurred near the same time Will Walker would have received news that no more information about the younger George Smith would be forthcoming. But she didn’t mention the Bible. She had her own pride.

Samuel rubbed his chin thoughtfully at the end of the telling. “Will must have heard that Mr. Smith was searching for the Walker family and decided to take matters into his own hands, introducing himself as a private investigator.” A corner of his mouth hooked up. “He must have relished being paid to find himself.”

“And paid to deliver letters to himself.” That was the only part of the story that made sense to Esther. “Pretending to be a private investigator to throw off a search, I understand. But why not simply inform my grandfather that my mother was dead? Why continue to write to him for years? Merely to keep track of my father? Was he
routinely
burglarizing the young Mr. Smith? Did he seek revenge against all my mother’s lovers in such a manner?”

“Will wasn’t above getting back a little of his own.”

“Will wasn’t above much of anything,” she muttered, remembering the way he had laughed in the tavern while she’d stared at her coins. She folded up her paper and put it back in her bag. “I suppose it was all just a game to him.”

The man had loved his games, the more challenging and sordid, the better.

“I’m sorry. But yes, I imagine it was.” Samuel reached out to slide his hand over hers. “Are you all right?”

She stared down at their hands, just as she had in the station, with a confusing mix of fear and longing.

“Yes,” she replied quietly. “It all worked out for my benefit in the end. If Will hadn’t written my grandfather, I wouldn’t have found the letter in the desk. I wouldn’t have come to London and met my brother and grandfather.” And she wouldn’t have had this time with Samuel. She turned to him, shifting her feet a little as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of his house. “Events may not have played out exactly as I imagined, but I’m glad I came.”

Whatever happened between them going forward, she would never regret the week she’d spent with him here.

Samuel’s assessing gaze tracked over her face. “I’ve an errand to run. And there’s a man I want to try to find this evening. Someone who might be able to tell me where to find John Porter and his friends. We’ll talk when I return.”

* * *

As evening fell, Esther wandered Samuel’s house, checking windows and door locks. In the past, she had often sought solitude when her thoughts troubled her. She preferred the privacy of her bedchamber, where she could work through her problems without distraction. Tonight, however, her body felt as restless as her mind, and she was glad for the excuse to stroll about. She drifted from room to room, absently smiling at staff and silently cataloging every inch of the house. She wasn’t aware she was doing the latter until she caught herself scrutinizing the faint signature on an uninspired watercolor in the downstairs hall.

Shaking her head, she moved on, meandering into the parlor. Why on earth did she feel compelled to memorize every detail of the house? Was it because she would leave tomorrow and never return?

Was
she leaving tomorrow?

She’d taken her extra day and found her grandfather. Was she
supposed
to leave now? Expected to leave?

Everything was still undecided. It all felt so uncertain. Only days ago, she’d been happily dreaming of a future with Samuel. Now that future seemed hazy, ill-defined, and a little frightening. She didn’t know what came next. She didn’t know what
should
come next. Their argument had been smoothed over, but the doubts it had produced remained entrenched.

She felt as if she was standing on that precipice, still waiting on Samuel for…something. A clearer indication that he’d been listening, perhaps. A sign or reassurance. Maybe if he decided she could stay one more day, or promised he still meant to see her in Derbyshire in a fortnight, or told her…

Suddenly aware of the appalling tenor of her thoughts, she came to a clumsy stop, her slippers catching against the parlor carpet.

Good Lord, she was doing it
again
. She was waiting for someone else to make decisions for her.

For all her grand talk of taking control of her own life, in the end, she was waiting for Samuel to decide their fate. No, not just decide, she realized.
Insist upon.
She was waiting for him to take complete charge of their future. She wanted him to talk her over the edge of that precipice so she wouldn’t have to take the risk for herself. She wanted him to cajole and persuade, and make promises. And she wanted all that, she realized, because then only Samuel would be responsible for what came after. If he changed his mind later, she could always comfort herself with the knowledge that she wasn’t at fault for his disappointment. She’d warned him. The affair had been his idea. He’d
insisted
.

And that was rubbish, expecting Samuel to soothe her insecurities as if she were a child, expecting him to make all the decisions, take all the risks, accept all the responsibility. And she would just…let herself be dragged along.

That was
cowardice
.

She needed to make her own choices. She would decide for herself what to risk and how much.

And for Samuel, she thought with growing determination, she would risk everything.

Hands clenched at her sides, she resumed her directionless walk, heading into the library.

Perhaps Samuel did see her differently than she saw herself. Maybe his life
would
be simpler, calmer with an obedient wife at his side. But neither of those possibilities altered the fact that life would be
better
if they were together.

Nothing changed the fact that she loved him.

She was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with Samuel Brass. The man who had chased her all the way to London out of concern for a friend. The man who had played a silly game with her in the park. The man who argued with her, laughed with her, teased her, and tempted her. How could she not love his wicked hands and his kind, crinkle-at-the-eyes smile? God help her, she even loved his arrogance and overbearing protectiveness, his gruffness and clumsiness with words. She
adored
him.

And she would fight to keep him. That was her choice.

And as soon as he…

Passing the open door to his study, her gaze flicked over a scattering of papers on his desk.

She froze, then slowly turned her head for a better look.

Not papers. The letters from his mother. And they had been opened.

She walked into the room slowly and stood over the desk to stare at the stacks of correspondence. Without thought, her fingers came up to lightly brush the edge of one envelope.

Several emotions assailed her at once. There was fear for Samuel, because there was no telling what the missives contained, no telling how much it might have hurt him to read them. And there was humbling wonder, because he had read them for
her
. He
had
been listening.

And all the while, she had not been. He had told her he didn’t want a biddable woman. He had said he wanted
her
, and still she’d kept her distance, waiting for him to convince her.

All so she wouldn’t have to take the risk of telling him the truth.

He was everything she wanted. He was the only thing she needed. He was the best person she’d ever known. She loved him. And if he would only give her the chance, she knew she could make him happy.

And if he wouldn’t give her the chance, she’d take it anyway.

She wasn’t going back to Derbyshire without the promise he would follow. She wasn’t going to toss away a future with Samuel out of fear.

She bloody well
would
fight to keep him.

And she was going to tell him all of this. As soon as he came home.

She glanced at the clock on the mantel, wondering how much longer he would stay away. It was immensely frustrating to be brimming with a sense of purpose and have nowhere to direct it.

Turning from the study, she took a few steps into the library before spying Sarah near the parlor doors. The young woman was dragging her feet, staring at the floor ahead of her and muttering something under her breath.

Worried, Esther waved her hand to gain the maid’s attention. “Sarah?” She hurried to her side. “Something the matter?”

Sarah gave a little start, her head whipping up. “Oh. No. Sorry, mum. Nothing the matter. Just going to let the beastie inside.” She made a halfhearted gesture in the general direction of the kitchen as she resumed her walk. “Been watching him from the sitting room windows.”

Esther fell into step beside her. Watching a dog play in the garden wasn’t what had brought on the slumped shoulders and glum countenance. “I’ll join you, if you don’t mind,” she decided, selfishly grateful for the chance to distract herself with someone else’s troubles.

“Of course not, mum.”

When they reached the front hall, Esther touched her arm to stop their progress. “Just a moment.” She dashed over and snatched up her black parasol from the hall stand. “Here we are.”

Sarah’s features twisted in comical bemusement. “What’s that for then?”

“Rats,” she supplied. “Harry might find them a lark, but I’d just as soon not shoo one away with my foot.”

“Oh. Aye. I wouldn’t recommend it,” Sarah replied. She smiled a little, but she grew quiet again as they headed downstairs.

Dipping her head, Esther tried to catch the maid’s eyes. “Won’t you tell me what’s troubling you? I can keep a confidence.”

The girl let out a tired sigh. “It’s Mrs. Lanchor. She’s put out with me because someone left the kitchen door unlocked.”

Esther’s heart leaped into her throat. She grabbed Sarah’s arm, bringing them both to an abrupt halt just inside the kitchen. Visions of three men picking the lock on the kitchen door and creeping into the house danced in her head. “What? When?”

It hadn’t been but a half hour since she’d checked the kitchen door herself.

“Just a bit ago. Ten minutes, maybe,” Sarah replied. “She went to let the beast out and found the door unlocked. She said it was me, but—”

“Why did no one tell me?”

“There’s nothing nefarious in it, mum. Honest.” She grimaced and cast a quick glance over her shoulder before whispering, “It was just Tom. I know he come down here five minutes before Mrs. Lanchor.”

“You’re certain? Absolutely certain?”

Sarah gave a quick nod. “Said he wanted a quick spot of air in the garden. I saw him come this way, and I heard him open the door. He must have come back in straightaway. Mrs. Lanchor only just missed him.”

Relieved, she released Sarah’s arm. The door shouldn’t have been left unlocked out of carelessness, but at least it hadn’t been pried open by John Porter and his friends. “Mrs. Lanchor doesn’t believe you about Tom?”

“I didn’t mention it,” Sarah confessed. “He’s a good sort. Been a bit daft lately, is all, what with his mum taking so sick. He’s been making mistakes all month.”

Esther’s annoyance with Tom’s negligence dimmed. It would be easy to forget something simple like locking a door when the mind was crowded with worry for an ill parent. “And you don’t want to add to his troubles, is that it?”

“Sir Samuel’s a fine master. Good as they come.” Sarah grimaced again, a little dramatically this time. “But he won’t be pleased to know his orders weren’t followed.”

“I see… Would it help if I talked to Sir Samuel?”

Sarah blinked at her, then smiled brightly. “It might at that. Thank you, mum.”

Looking a little more like her chipper self, Sarah stood back while Esther went to open the door. Thankfully, there were no rats to be found on the other side. Still, she waited until Harry dashed inside, and she shut and locked the door behind him before tucking the handle of her parasol into her belt.

All clumsy paws and swatting tail, the dog bounded to Sarah for a rub, then Esther, then back to Sarah, then did an abrupt turnabout and bolted out of the kitchen.

“Beastie!” Sarah called out after him. “Oh, Mrs. Lanchor will have my hide if he breaks another vase,” she grumbled. She picked up her skirts and gave chase, leaving Esther standing alone in the kitchen.

Well, she thought with a flicker of amusement, the trip to the kitchen had succeeded in taking her mind off Samuel for all of three and a half, possibly four, minutes.

With a small huff, she sat down on a nearby stool and wished he would hurry home. Then again, it might be best if she worked out what she meant to say to him before he returned. Love and strength of purpose were all well and good, but she needed to convince him she was in the right…

Later, Esther would think that had she not been so lost in her own thoughts and worries, she would have realized she was not alone in the room. If she’d been paying proper attention, she would have heard the footsteps approaching from behind.

She was unaware of the danger, however, until a beefy arm snaked around her neck and yanked her backward off the stool into a hard wall of muscle and bone. A hand clamped over her mouth.