A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers) (7 page)

Because he couldn’t stop thinking about Esther’s feet. Her
feet
for Christ’s sake. The pink skin, the graceful arch of her foot, the hidden ankle just above, the smooth expanse of skin leading up to the hollow behind her knee. He’d always liked that spot. Soft and sensitive—

“Hell, you have that look about you.”

“Sorry? What?” He blinked at his friend. “What look?”

“The same look Renderwell had when he was sniffing at Lottie’s heels.”

“I’m not in love with Esther.” He was, at most, in annoyed lust with her. And it was a deviant lust at that. Feet, indeed.

“As you like,” Gabriel replied with a smirk. He glanced at the clock. “I’ve some time to do a bit of digging tonight. I might look into this man at the station.”

Samuel shook his head. His friend had just returned from a monthlong trip to the continent and was leaving for Scotland on the morrow. He could have one night between jobs to relax. “I’ll see to it in the morning. Let’s have a meal.”

They got drunk instead. Well, technically, Gabriel got drunk. Samuel stopped after the second glass. He didn’t mind the dulling effects of a little drink (or a lot, when the occasion called for it), but there was Esther’s safety to consider. It was unlikely she’d be attacked in the hotel, but should the unthinkable happen, he’d just as soon not pass out on her attacker’s feet.

Wouldn’t mind so much if it was her feet…
No
. No. He was not going to think about her feet.

What was the point? It was unlikely he’d get another look at them. Unless she had a mind to take off her slippers before she kicked him.

It was possible he deserved a kick. It was possible he’d been hasty in his decision not to put the blame of their disagreement solely on his shoulders. He did have a tendency to make hasty judgments.

“You’ve that look again,” Gabriel said to him—or slurred at him, really. The man was truly sotted, slouched like a half-filled sack of potatoes in his seat.

Samuel started to deny the accusation, then decided against it. What was the good of having a brother, after all, if one couldn’t confide in him?

“I kissed Esther,” he admitted and frowned at his empty glass. “She didn’t care for it.”

“Women…” Gabriel began knowingly. He swung his glass around, looking as if he meant to follow up that comment with a poignant observation or two on the more aggravating qualities of the fairer sex. Somewhere after the third or fourth swing, he appeared to have forgotten what he was on about. “They smell like sugar biscuits sometimes. Quite like that.”

Something of a non sequitur, but Samuel couldn’t argue with fact. He liked the smell of sugar biscuits, too. “Esther smells like roses.”

He liked that even better.

“Isn’t roses. Pa’onies.”

“Ponies?” He sincerely hoped the man wasn’t implying that Esther smelled like a horse. He wasn’t drunk, but he was exceedingly comfortable in his chair. He didn’t feel like standing up to punch his friend.

“Not ponies.
Peonies
,” Gabriel corrected, overenunciating the word. “The flower.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“You’ve seen them. Enormous, fluffy things.” He made an indecipherable shape with his hands. “Like puffed up roses. She smells like those.”

“Like puffy roses?”

“Not roses. Peonies. Different species, man.” He frowned drunkenly into his glass. “Is it species with flowers? Or breeds. Maybe it’s family.”

“Species, I think. Could be subspecies.” Neither of them had excelled in biology. “Doesn’t matter. Esther smells like roses.”

“Peonies.”

“Roses.”

“Wager on it?”

He’d wager that this was one of the most ridiculous conversations he’d ever had. “What do you suggest?”

“I win, you go to Scotland for me. Bloody hate the cold.”

“It’s August.”

“Still bloody colder’n it has any right to be,” Gabriel muttered.

“If I went to Scotland for you, you would have to remain here with Esther.”

Gabriel gave this some thought. “Five pounds. Winner takes five pounds.”

“Done.”

* * *

Esther snuggled deeper into her blankets as Samuel and Gabriel’s muffled laughter floated into her room from across the hall. There was something wonderfully reassuring about the sound.

Years ago, when she’d been very little, her father had rented rooms from a woman with an enormous old Rottweiler named Champ. On the nights her father would take Lottie out until the small hours of the morning, Esther would sneak downstairs, lonely and afraid, and curl up with Champ next to the kitchen stove. The dog was too old and too docile to serve as any sort of guard, but that wasn’t why she’d sought him out. She’d liked the sound of his snoring. When she closed her eyes, she could imagine it was the rumble and puff of a mighty dragon watching over her as she slept.

In her bed at the hotel, she listened to another low rumble of laughter and smiled to herself. It was like having two pet dragons, she supposed. She’d not gone looking for them, and she was going to have the devil’s own time managing them. But, still, it was nice to know they were there.

Pity the sound wasn’t soothing her to sleep like Champ’s snoring. Frustrated, she tried adjusting her blankets, but it didn’t help. Her body was eager to give in to exhaustion, but her mind reeled and spun like a top. And it kept coming back around to the same thing.

Why had Samuel kissed her?

Earlier, the question had been buried beneath a mountain of anger and insult. Now the latter had melted away and the question was left standing all on its own, demanding her attention.

Why had he done it?

Samuel had never shown that sort of interest in her before. He’d never sought out her company or flirted with her. He’d never stared at her longingly from across the room. And she was dead certain of this, because she’d spent more time than she cared to admit staring at him.

Not that she’d been mooning over him. He just always seemed to be catching her eye, always piquing her interest. She’d known so few men like him—honest and courageous and trustworthy. And completely, utterly, out of her reach.

The fact was, she thought better of Samuel than Samuel did of her. And it wasn’t just a matter of him being oblivious to her charms. He was simply too familiar with her flaws. He knew her secrets, her every fault, her worst attributes, her most humiliating mistakes. Well, perhaps not the worst. But he knew most of her mistakes, enough to judge her and find her lacking.

And he did.
Oh
, he did.

One way or another, Samuel had always made his opinion of her perfectly clear.

He didn’t like her. He didn’t respect her. He would never trust her.

So why had he kissed her today?

Certainly, they’d come to a slightly better understanding of each other over the course of the morning, but that couldn’t possibly be sufficient to cause a radical change of opinion on his part. Was it just curiosity? Had he simply been looking for a way to keep her quiet? Had he accidently swallowed a bit of toxic ditchwater?

She scrubbed her hands over her face with a groan. Guessing was pointless. She would never know the true answer unless she asked Samuel, which was obviously out of the question.

“Curiosity,” she whispered into the room. If she couldn’t guess, and she couldn’t ask, she’d just decide what was true for herself. “It was just curiosity. Nothing more.”

Esther wondered what the London press would have to say about the two pitiful creatures who shuffled into her rooms to take breakfast. Samuel appeared to have changed at least, but Gabriel was wearing the same clothes, his hair was askew, and his handsome countenance was dulled by a sickly pallor. They both looked as if they’d not slept.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” She leaned over and sniffed as Gabriel took a seat next to her. “You smell like a distillery, sir.”

He gave her a smile that managed to charm despite his unhealthy complexion. “You smell like peonies.”

“It’s roses,” she corrected.

“Damn.”

She didn’t know why Gabriel should be disappointed or why Samuel should find his friend’s disappointment so amusing. “Do I want to know why—?”

“No.” This from both men.

She decided to take them at their word. “Fine pair of guards I had for the night. Drunk as lords, the both of them.”

“Samuel wasn’t drunk,” Gabriel replied. “And you, Miss Bales, are not in need of a guard.”

She beamed at him. “Thank you, Sir Gabriel.”

“Don’t put ideas in her head,” Samuel muttered.

“She doesn’t need me for that either.”

Samuel made a face at the table of food. “Did you wear your veil when this arrived?”

“No, of course not,” she chimed sweetly. “I was quite as you see me now, and before the maids left, I gave them each a portrait of me with my full name, address, and family tree printed on the back. I encouraged them to share the information amongst their friends.”

Gabriel took a cautious sip of his tea. “I think probably she wore the veil.”

She sent Samuel a teasing grin and was gratified to see his mouth curve with begrudging humor. She hoped his willingness to smile meant he wasn’t still brooding over their argument in the carriage. To begin with, he hadn’t any right to act the injured party. More importantly, she didn’t want to fight with him.

He’d kissed her out of curiosity, and obviously, the kiss had been more enjoyable for her than for him. That stung, but Samuel had made up for his callousness by being so thoughtful last night. Her pride would mend, as pride always did. Particularly when one made certain not to repeat the same humiliation twice.

She would not kiss Samuel again. He would not point out her lack of skill. She wouldn’t have to wonder why he’d kissed her in the first place. And that would be that. They could get on as they had before.

It was all quite sensible. Strange that it should leave her feeling so dissatisfied.

Next to her, Gabriel grimaced at his plate and pushed it away. “I can’t eat this.”

Esther pulled herself away from her woolgathering and tsked sympathetically. “Have a little of the eggs, at least.” She nudged the plate back. It was strange to see Gabriel so out of sorts. He was usually so careful to appear fit and well groomed. “You’ll feel the better for eating something.”

Samuel shook his head at Gabriel. “Don’t. Don’t let her nurse you. You’ll be dead in an hour.”

“I nursed you.” She laughed. She’d taken good care of him after he’d been shot last year. “You’re still here.”

“I’ve a stronger constitution. Gabriel doesn’t hold up well under torture.”

“Torture?” What drivel. But she was as happy to hear the teasing note in his voice as she had been to see the smile. “I was mercy itself. Florence Nightingale might take lessons from me.”

“You hit me on the nose.”

“I flicked you on the nose.” She demonstrated with her fingers. “Delicately.” And so might the lady with the lamp do as well if her patient tried to stand up for a drink ten minutes after being shot. “You were a terrible patient. That was the trouble.”

“Agreed,” Gabriel said and shrugged at Samuel. “You’ve always been a terrible patient.” He gave Esther an apologetic look. “So have I been, I’m afraid. I’m not eating the eggs.”

“But—”

“I’ve a long ride to Scotland,” he interrupted and rose from his seat. “I’ll find something more appealing along the way.”

Samuel pushed back from the table. “We’ll see you to the station.”

“No need. I have to stop off at home first for my things.” He rolled his shoulders, as if suddenly a little uncomfortable in his own skin. “And I intend to burn these clothes. Have your breakfast. I’ll send word when I arrive.” He took Esther’s hand and kissed the back of it like a proper, old-fashioned gentleman. Or a charming rogue, as was really the case. “Miss Bales. A pleasure, as always.”

“Sir Gabriel.”

Esther waited until Gabriel left before turning to Samuel. “Does he often drink to excess?”

“No,” Samuel replied, but he continued to stare at the door, a crease between his eyes. “Very rarely.”

“Are you worried about him?”

“He works too much. He needs a proper rest.”

“You care for him like a brother.” Or a mother, but she didn’t think he’d appreciate that comparison.

“He is the nearest thing I have to a brother. I’ve known him since childhood.”

“You went to school together, didn’t you?”

Samuel nodded. “Flintwood Academy.”

“Flintwood?” That was new information. “I’ve heard of that institution.” She leaned forward to whisper dramatically. “They say it is where the wicked boys are sent.”

“Not wicked,” he corrected, one corner of his mouth hooking up. “Merely the unruly.”

“I find it difficult to imagine you unruly,” she replied, sitting back.

There was a moment’s pause before he said, “I was a brawler.”

“Were you really? I cannot picture it.” He was such a contained man. She’d never seen him lose his temper completely. It was difficult to imagine him as a wild young man, eager for a fight. “With whom did you brawl? The local boys I suppose—”

“With my father.”

Amusement vanished, and she swallowed against a lump in her throat.

“Oh. Oh, I see.” She didn’t, of course. She couldn’t begin to imagine what that must have been like. Her father had been many things—many terrible, unforgivable things—but he’d never raised a hand to his children. “I’m sorry.”

He lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “My father liked to drink, and when he drank, he liked to hit things. My mother, in particular.”

“How old were you?” she inquired.

“Twelve.”

“
Twelve?
” For God’s sake, that wasn’t brawling. Children brawled with other children. A grown man brawled with other grown men. A grown man didn’t brawl with a child. That wasn’t a fight. That was a beating. “I’m so sorry.”

“He wasn’t a large man. I owe my size to my maternal grandfather, I’m told. By the time I was twelve, I fancied myself big enough to stand up to him. And so I might have been, had my father not picked up the fire poker.”

“Oh my God.”

He shook his head at her, as if dismissing the memory. “It was a long time ago, and it worked out well in the end. I was sent to Flintwood, where I received a decent education and lived without a moment’s fear of my father. And I met Gabriel there, though you’d not recognize the man in the child. He was the scrawniest eleven-year-old I’ve ever seen, and one of the cleverest. And meanest.”

“Gabriel?” She found it difficult to reconcile that description with the carefully charming man who’d only just left. There was more to Gabriel than met the eye, certainly, but she’d never suspected meanness.

“He settled down in a few months.”

“What happened to your mother?”

“She left my father nine years ago, when I was knighted and the papers recounted all the unhappy details of my early childhood. Even the most loyal of friends and servants will talk for the right price.” He shook his head again. “She lives with my aunt now. Doesn’t matter.”

It did matter. She wanted to ask him more about his childhood and his parents. Did he ever wonder what his life might have been like if his family had been different? Did he ever wonder if
he
might have been different? Maybe even better? Did he believe one could become a better person if one really put her mind to it?

Oh, she had so many questions and a sudden urge to share her own thoughts, her own experiences, even her real reason for coming to London.

He was eager to change the subject, though. She could see it in his eyes, which had grown distant and shuttered. If she tried to push him for more information now, it would be an awkward and one-sided conversation.

She forced a casual smile. “Friends and servants from your childhood? You really were a sensation, weren’t you?”

“We were.” He tapped his fork absently against the table. “You look as if my history has surprised you. Didn’t you read the papers nine years ago?”

“Not for a time,” she replied. “We left London just days after Lady Strale’s rescue, you’ll recall. We were trying to start a new life in Norfolk. There was so much to do, I simply didn’t have time for reading. And we kept our distance from the neighbors at first, so there was no one to tell us the latest gossip.”

“Do you resent me for it? I know your sister did for a time.”

“For our banishment to Norfolk? No.” On the contrary, she’d been grateful. She wanted to tell him that but couldn’t think of a way to explain her feelings without opening the Pandora’s box that was her past. “I quite liked life at Willowbend.”

“I should have thought it too dull for you.”

“It was, eventually, but I enjoyed it at first. It was something new, after all.”

“I suppose it was. But what of the decision to keep your father’s role in Lady Stale’s rescue a secret? You must have been angry about that.”

“Not at all.” Unlike her sister, she’d never been under the mistaken impression that Will Walker had become a reformed man. She’d always known him to be a blackguard. He’d earned his ignominious end. But even if he had sought redemption, it would have made little difference for the Walker children. “Lottie says that, had our father been given his due credit for the rescue, we’d have become sensations as well.”

“Yes.”

“Making it an easy thing for our father’s enemies to find us.” There was no escaping the past. No matter how much one might wish it. “It was all done for the best, and I suspect you’ve earned that knighthood a dozen times over, with or without my father’s help.”

That seemed to cheer him up rather nicely. “I like to think so.”

“I heard you were all given very dramatic names and descriptions by the papers. Renderwell was the Gentleman Thief Taker, Gabriel was the Thief Taker most likely to seduce his prey, and you were—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Thief Taker Almighty,” she said and laughed when he groaned. “Oh, come now, it isn’t so terrible a name. I should think you’d be flattered.”

“Flattered?” He made a face at his plate. “No one wants to be remembered for having been shot an inordinate number of times.”

“Only four,” she replied and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing again.

“Only four?”

“Just the three when you’d earned the name.”

His expression turned baleful. “Just three.”

“Indeed. It should be at least six to warrant ‘Almighty.’”

“Six? Why
six
?”

“I don’t know. It can’t be counted on just the one hand. That’s something.”

He gave a short bark of laughter. “Why not make it eleven so it can’t be counted on the hands at all?”

“That seems a trifle excessive.”

“A trifle…? Esther,
one
is excessive.”

She agreed wholeheartedly, but she was enjoying the silly disagreement. Even better, so was he. “But not all that impressive, is it? Anyone might stumble into the path of a single stray bullet.” She shook her head at him. “No, I think six is a reasonable threshold.”

“I see. Well, I shall endeavor to increase the pace of my stumbling, as it appears I have some way to go.”

Suddenly, the conversation no longer felt quite so silly. The humor took on a dark, even macabre cast. It was one thing to argue over the number of shots in the abstract; it was another entirely to look at the man and remember him ashen faced and in pain, a bullet hole in his shoulder.

“Samuel?” She waited for him to meet her gaze. She knew he didn’t fully trust her. She accepted that he would probably never believe half of what came out of her mouth. But for reasons she didn’t fully understand herself, she wanted him to believe her now. She wanted it desperately. “I am very glad it has not been six.”

He smiled at her then, that wonderful, cheerful, friendly smile she’d never had from him before.

“So am I, Esther.”

* * *

For the life of him, Samuel could not figure out what had possessed him to share his ugly childhood memory with Esther.

It wasn’t that his father’s penchant for drink and violence was any sort of secret. But what was general knowledge and what one brought up as breakfast conversation were two different animals entirely.

Furthermore, the incident with the fire poker wasn’t general knowledge. By some miracle, it had never made the papers, and he’d never spoken of it to anyone but Gabriel and Renderwell. He’d never intended to speak of it to anyone else. He wasn’t ashamed of the fight—he’d not done a damn thing wrong that night. But it was an uncomfortable business, laying out one’s personal pain for someone else’s perusal.

So why the devil had he blurted the thing out over eggs and toast?

Maybe it was some sort of attempt to repair whatever damage had been done by the kiss. Or maybe it was to repay her for that kiss.

No, not repay her. He didn’t like the sound of that, as if he’d purchased her favors. She’d not sold her touch. Rather, she had given him a part of herself she’d never given anyone else. And she’d told him of her longing for adventure and excitement. He’d wager that wasn’t something she shared with many.

Maybe he’d simply wanted to give her some part of himself in return.

Or maybe he had a bit of the drink left in his system. Never mind that he’d not imbibed enough to be feeling the effects hours later. The drink would explain his odd behavior. It would also explain the equally strange fact that he didn’t feel at all embarrassed by it. He wasn’t the least bit uncomfortable.

Before, with his friends, recounting the fight with his father had left him feeling drained, even a little sick.