A Thief Before Christmas (4 page)

“Oh, la! Thank you! I can tarry for only a bit!” The others smiled easily enough but returned their attention to their leader, and I pivoted on my toes, searching for the back of the group. The tall girl's name was Annabelle, I learned, and she was the best and the brightest at all things. The gossip of the day was already boring me, but I needed to see if any of these girls spoke of Lucretia. A name such as that would be easy enough to note. As I worked my way toward the edge of the group, however, I saw her all on my own.

Standing off to one side of the courtyard was the young woman from yesterday's unfortunate horse-tangle, who had tried so hard and so ineffectually to extract her aunt's hair from certain ruination. I remembered the girl's startled gasp when she'd realized she'd lost something precious on the ground in the scuffle, her deliberately smoothed features as she told her aunt that no, she had not misplaced anything and they could be on their way.

I had found Lucretia.

And even if I wasn't certain, everything about the girl proclaimed her as my mark.

Oh, I'm not saying an average person would have known her quarry so quickly. But I was not only a thief of no small skill, I was an actress, as good at reading people as some could read books. I could tell by the shift of a torso who was truly engaged in a conversation and who was straining away. I could tell by the tilt of a head who was pondering important business and who didn't think at all. I could tell who had a secret and who didn't, and I could spot well-hidden misery a mile away.

The girl at the edge of the courtyard was well and truly miserable.

She was striking, though, I'd give her that. Not quite beautiful, but . . . interesting. Today her hair was pulled back into a tidy wrap, nearly covered by her hooded hat. Her eyes were almost a startling light blue, and her skin was fair. Her cape looked well made, snugly drawn as it was around her, and I saw her touch her hip not once but three times in the space of the few seconds I watched her—a habitual reassuring response. Only now her lips dropped farther down at the corners, and I saw her mouth tighten in self-reproach. I could almost hear the words as if I had scripted them myself. “Stop being so stupid,” the girl was chastising herself, I was sure of it. “What's lost is lost.”

Still, when her gaze strayed toward the group of girls of which she was most assuredly not a part, I saw the panicked look in her eyes and my stomach twisted. With her letter lost, she had no idea who might scoop it up and read it, I realized. Did she believe that her secret had fallen into the wrong hands?

I couldn't set her mind at ease completely on that score, but I could help.

When the group swung wide and to the right, I stepped toward the young woman and smiled. “Are you Lucretia?” I asked shyly.

“Yes,” she responded, startled. “Do I— Do I know you?”

“Oh, no.” I shook my head. “One of the girls mentioned your name and . . .” I waved my hand vaguely back to the group. “I don't know who, though, I am new in town.”

“Well, I don't know that they would have said anything in kindness.” Lucretia grimaced, her gaze darting over to where the girls now giggled in a tight knot around Annabelle. “They aren't bad girls, just . . . I don't fit in well with them. I spend most of my days tending to my aunt.” It was her turn to give a little half gesture, and I followed the movement to the far end of the courtyard. There, sure enough, was the fat noblewoman from yesterday afternoon, with a completely new wig and hat ensemble, and a purple stone the size of a fist looped about her throat.

My eyes widened. What was she thinking? I had given her that stone yesterday morning as if I'd picked it up from the ground. Surely she realized that this meant someone had lost the thing. Why would she display it so prominently?

I noticed something else, too. As the men disgorged from the church in knots of three and four, Lucretia would quickly glance up, scan the groups, and then return her attention to me. I fought not to grin, and hoped Henry was a God-fearing man.

“Your family is in the trade?” she was asking now, and I nodded quickly, remembering my role.

“Yes. We're in town but for a little while, and then off again. My father trusts precious few people, and so the task of managing his appointments falls to me. But today he is, ah . . . well, we've been traveling so much.”

“I understand,” Lucretia said, her smile kind. I did not have to explain my father's non-churchgoing ways further. “Men who are dedicated to their work seldom take the time to rest, until it all comes up on them at once.”

She lifted her eyes to make another quick scan of the courtyard, and this time she flinched.

I turned to see just what this Henry fellow was all about.

Unfortunately, I wasn't alone.

“Henry David Dobbs!” Annabelle cried out, her voice clear and melodious. “Pray, come over and give me a proper greeting!”

CHAPTER SIX

My eyes popped wide to see Annabelle flounce across the courtyard, the other girls trailing her like ducklings. Beside me, Lucretia gave an unhappy sigh. “Who is that?” I asked, my curiosity clear. Just a simple traveling miss, out enjoying the scenery.

“Henry Dobbs is the third son of the Dobbs Milliners, one of the most prolific craftsmen in Leeds.” She frowned at me. “I am surprised you don't know the name.”

I shrugged. “I've only just begun assisting my father. I don't think he has ever mentioned a Henry Dobbs before.”

“Well, no, he wouldn't have.” Lucretia shook her head. “Henry hates the work, I tell you plain. Or, at least, I never see him actually working.”

I frowned at her. “He's a wastrel?” Why would she lose her heart to a shiftless fool?

“Oh, never that.” She shook her head again, firmly. “But he is such a kind and loving young man. Always willing to help, always willing to give his time when he can spare it from his work. He has no taste for commerce, though that is where his commitment lies. And, as you can see, he is quite a favorite with the girls.”

“Well, if his family is rich, that would account for some of the attention, I'm sure,” I said dryly. “Even if he is the third son.”

“Oh, his father has made much over his love for all his sons. They and their families will be well cared for.” She grimaced. “Annabelle is quite certain he will marry her and keep her in the style and luxury of her current life. And perhaps he will. They would make a lovely couple.”

“It doesn't look like he has much of a choice,” I said, frowning. Annabelle and her girls had nearly surrounded poor Henry, along with a few other young men of apparent high standing. Henry looked chagrined, but he held his ground, responding to Annabelle's questions with smiles and easy banter. “Why don't you go over and talk to him? It looks as if he could use rescuing.”

“From Annabelle Farthington? Not likely,” Lucretia scoffed with the first hint of real fire I'd seen in her. “She is barely eighteen, and yet you would think she ruled the city. Her family has an estate east of Leeds, and their money doesn't come from commerce. 'Tis said old King Henry had them in line for the peerage, and now they hope to further their interests in that direction with the ascension of Princess Elizabeth to the throne.” She crossed herself quickly. “God rest Queen Mary's soul.”

“Yes, God rest,” I murmured. In truth, I had no love for our dearly departed monarch. From all accounts, Mary Tudor had been as dour in person as in policy, and she'd painted the country in blood trying to force her people to cleave to Catholic ways when verily half the land was now Protestant. I prayed Elizabeth would have a lighter hand with her rule, though I doubted I'd ever see the woman. Grandfather had long warned us away from performing in any city so grand as London. “Still, ah . . . is not your family also well placed?” The question was a bit pointed, but I didn't have much time here. The socializing hour after services gave me the best opportunity to determine how to proceed. But it seemed my work was more complicated than I had expected.

Finding Lucretia had been easy, and her young would-be lover seemed a nice enough sort. But if Henry was already promised to another, then that was no good. Master James was right: The Golden Rose had only a few more days' respite here in Leeds before we would head off for more southern climes. Not only did we have to sell the goods we'd stolen, but we could not afford to be caught with our pockets full of gold.

But still, Henry . . . I frowned at the young man Annabelle was plying with her feminine wiles. Then I noted Annabelle's expression, the movements of her hands. I was so intent that Lucretia's next words all but startled me into my next life. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Are you
memorizing
Annabelle's movements?”

“What? No!” I said hastily, dropping my hands to smooth my gown. Of course I had been doing that very thing. I was constantly studying other women, as I would be doubtless asked to portray the type at one time or another. Who didn't want to be prepared? “She is just a bit . . . distracting, I guess,” I said lamely.

“Oh, I don't blame you,” Lucretia said, even her irritability charming. “She has half the world in her sway, and the other half envious. I tell you plain, she is not a woman you would wish to have as your competition.” She smiled at me. “We've not been formally introduced, though. I'm Lucretia Williams.” She held out her hand.

“Mathilda Mathison,” I said, taking her hand as I considered her words. I watched Henry's attention move beyond Annabelle and to the newest group exiting the doors of the church. Instantly he took his leave of the young woman and made his way to the knot of clergymen as if he actually liked them.

I had a bad feeling about that.

No sooner had I resolved to go over to find out why young Henry Dobbs, productive member of the house of Dobbs, was hanging on to a minister's conversation when a far different problem affronted me.

A cry of outrage rang out over the lot of us, accompanied by the thudding of panicked feet. Then the clutch of older churchgoers at the head of our gathered assembly parted suddenly with a fuss and a flurry just as the shifty jewel dealer Theodore Minsk ran smack into the center of our group, shouted out in a voice overloud for the small space that he had been
cheated
, he had been
duped
, he had been
lied
to, and above all else, he was
not to blame
!

Behind him, hard on his heels, were two magistrates I didn't recognize, and one blustering nobleman I did. My fingers twisted in my skirts.

I remembered the fat lord specifically because I'd been the one to snip a jeweled cuff from his glove just yesterday morning, a cuff that had sported a large, nearly perfect amethyst cut into a rectangle, one of the prettiest stones I'd ever seen.

And, more important, it was also one of the stones we'd sold to Theodore Minsk, not eight hours after I'd stolen it.

My grudging worry of the past few days immediately burst into full flower:
Theodore had been caught out!

Which meant, unless I acted very quickly, the Golden Rose would be as well.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Wil
liam Mathison!” I called out in a voice loud and aristocratic enough to cause even Lucretia to jump back and every man, woman, and priest in the churchyard to look round to me. I swung forward with the haughtiest step to my stride I could master, not missing the gape-mouthed stares of Annabelle and her cohort. They had thought me a simple country miss, some daughter of a traveling merchant, and now I was painting quite a different picture indeed. But there was nothing for it.

“William, I will not have this disruption. I will not have it!” I blustered all the way up to Theodore and the man who had him by the ear, twisting it mercilessly. “Good sir, enough with that, enough!” I batted down the nobleman's hands, and the ingrate looked as if he just might twist my ear too, though I was clearly trying to help. Brute.

Turning back to Theodore, I pushed down
his
hands as well, even as he sought to massage his own battered head. He looked as if he'd been on the losing end of a fight with a mule. “What have you gotten yourself into now, William?” I wailed at him, my voice as raucous as a fishwife's. I turned back to the puffing brute of a man and poked a sharp finger into his round belly. “And you! Beating a poor bedlamite. For shame sir, for shame!”

As expected, the word
bedlamite
caught the entire churchyard up short. For all that Leeds was a good two hundred miles from London, everyone knew Bethlem Royal Hospital and what sort of people it housed behind its imposing stone walls. I could tell that I had the crowd in my hand, and I pressed my advantage immediately. “That's right, all of you,” I said, wishing there was a stage on which to speak.

And suddenly there was. With a swirl of a rich purple cape, Master James was suddenly in front of me as if from out of nowhere. He dropped a thick oilskin-wrapped bag of raw wool to the ground, ostensibly to take his ease as he listened to the caretaker of the crazy man hold forth.