Shirley Kerr (11 page)

“Does your brother know what you’re doing down here? It’s a wonder he doesn’t lock you in your room.”

A sculptor would want to smooth out that scowl. “My brother is the person who taught me how to do such things as mingle with maids and chat up the doxies at
dockside taverns, so locking me up would be rather hypocritical of him, wouldn’t it?”

Moncreiffe shook his head. “If you ever feel the need to do such a dangerous thing again, pray, ask me and I will accompany you. Day or night, just ask. It’s a miracle you were not accosted.”

“Oh, but I
was
accosted.” She took some delight in his concerned expression, and rested her hand on his knee. “Rest easy, my lord, for I assure you that I can take care of myself, as well as any lecherous sailors foolish enough to cross my path.” She lifted the right side of her skirt high enough for him to see the knife sheath strapped to her calf.

Moncreiffe glanced down, then made a strangled sound low in his throat.

She didn’t usually make a habit of letting men see her stocking-clad leg, but both men this morning had shown appropriate responses. Quite gratifying, really, to know she had that effect.

She thought it prudent not to mention the fact that the leather confection had been made for her by Gauthier as a birthday present, custom fit. Or that there was a matching sheath and knife for her left calf.

She twitched her skirts back into place. “You were going to tell me about the lead you were following, that brought you to Lost Wages?”

He locked his gaze on her face. “This morning I discovered that Sir Nigel is known to be a fence.”

One of the many qualities she admired about Moncreiffe was the way he spoke to her. Though not impervious to her charms—even he couldn’t resist a quick glance
now and then, and in this gown she could hardly blame him—he usually addressed her face rather than her bosom, as most men did.

“He mostly deals in small but valuable trinkets, and these items are rumored to change hands here, at Lost Wages.”

Charlotte drummed her fingers on the velvet seat cushion. “That would explain his interest in the snuffbox. I wonder if Melisande stole it at his behest, or was she merely a thief acting on her own, and Nigel is her fence?”

“We still can’t be certain it was Sir Nigel who ended up with the box last night. We have no proof yet.”

“True.” She nibbled on her bottom lip.

Moncreiffe tapped her knee. “Your turn. Why on earth did you come down here?” The
dressed like that
went unspoken this time, though he flicked his gaze to her exposed décolletage.

Drawing her cloak about her would only attract more attention to herself. “Steven and Gauthier—he’s one of our associates—also learned about the stolen merchandise that moves through Lost Wages. They’ve expressed their interest to the proprietors of the establishment, and think they can simply buy the snuffbox here tomorrow night.”

Moncreiffe’s brows shot up. “So easily?”

She shook her head. “Nigel, or whoever ended up with it last night, stole the box from somebody who had in turn just stolen the box from another thief. They must realize the box holds more value than the precious metal and gemstones of which it is made. Unless they are complete lackwits, they will not sell it with the rest of their common plunder at a place like Lost Wages.”

“Seems logical.”

“The length of time it takes them to find a way to get the most money out of this trinket is the amount of time we have to get it back.”

He nodded slowly. “So our next step is to confirm that it was indeed Sir Nigel we saw last night.”

The coach stopped. Moncreiffe had apparently instructed the driver to go ’round back to the mews, where the tall hedges and garden gate concealed their arrival.

“I will call for you in an hour, as we planned,” he said, handing her out of the carriage. “Or do we need to delay our drive, to give you more time to change?”

“That won’t be necessary. I will be ready on time.”

“You aren’t sickening for something, are you?” Moncreiffe said as soon as he’d helped Charlotte up into his phaeton, after they’d exited the front of the town house.

“I feel fine. Any reason I should not?” She settled her pale blue muslin skirts around her knees, then gripped the handrail as Moncreiffe snapped the reins and they pulled out into the flow of traffic.

“I’m merely concerned that you may have caught a chill earlier. You look a bit flushed.”

She self-consciously patted her cheeks, which were indeed a bit warm. “That’s what comes of rushing upstairs and having less than five minutes to change before you arrived. Aunt Hermione needed to consult with me on some household matters, and I hadn’t the heart to interrupt her.”

He didn’t need to know that Hermione had actually seen her in the scandalous red dress before she’d even
reached the back stairs, and felt compelled to lecture her on appropriate behavior and wardrobe.

“Five minutes? I’m not sure whether I should be impressed at your speed or insulted by the lack of time you spent on your toilette preparing for our excursion.”

Charlotte laughed. “If we were really affianced, you should be insulted. But since we are engaged in an investigation, you can be impressed.”

“Consider me duly impressed, then.”

The phaeton traveled along through the traffic almost effortlessly, Moncreiffe guiding the horse with a gentle hand on the reins. The same hands that had caressed her cheek in the darkness last night, up on the roof. This afternoon, those elegant long fingers were encased in fine kid gloves, soft as butter, no doubt. Would that she could have seen his face when he caressed her last night, what emotion his fathomless blue eyes might have revealed, seen if his heartbeat had quickened as much as hers.

They turned onto another street. With effort, she brought her attention back on task.

“If we can find the owner of the coach we saw last night, and connect him to Sir Nigel, then we should be able to prove Nigel has the box. How many coach makers are we going to visit?”

“None. I thought you might instead enjoy a drive through a neighborhood that used to be quite fashionable but has since fallen from favor.”

She gaped at him. “Why the devil would you think I’d prefer that?”

“The purpose of going to the coach makers was to
discover the identity of the owner of the coach in which Sir Nigel departed last night. I have a list of them if you still want it.” He patted his coat pocket, and Charlotte heard the crinkle of paper. “But what if I told you I have already discovered the owner’s identity?”

“And he lives near here? Oh, this is marvelous.” She patted his knee in appreciation. “However did you discover him so quickly? And who is it?”

“Baron Tumblety. I already knew that he was among Sir Nigel’s circle of acquaintance—they are seen at White’s together quite often. Tumblety exists on the edge of polite Society, as he has been known to engage in trade. It is even rumored that he is chief investor in a gaming hell.”

Charlotte snorted. “If he’s our man, down at Lost Wages they think he’s a rich toff.”

“We’re getting close.” Moncreiffe turned the horse onto a square lined with ancient oaks, their leaves turning yellow but not yet falling. Instead of governesses with their young charges in the square’s park, a group of boys shouted and pummeled one another, and the only adult was a disinterested washerwoman, draping damp bed linens over the bushes to dry.

The wind shifted, carrying a hint of the Thames at low tide. The waterfront was not distant, far too close for this neighborhood to be fashionable.

“Would we not have more luck in finding the carriage if we went around back to the mews?”

Moncreiffe pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and compared the address written there with those on the
houses they were passing. “I thought we’d have more luck if we found the correct house to begin with, before we tried tooling down the alley.”

“Of course, my lord.” Charlotte folded her hands together in an attempt to control her impatience and excitement. Steven had often commented upon her eagerness, praising her lack of maidenly reticence. He even claimed that her nose twitched like that of a hound that’s caught the scent of her prey.

Moncreiffe would never make such an unflattering comparison, she was sure.

“Right. That’s the one,” Moncreiffe murmured.

Charlotte noted the nondescript facade, so much like its neighbors. Paint was peeling from the once-white trim on the pediment above the front door, but even in that detail it was similar to its neighbors. Only the dull brass house numbers on the mellow brick set it apart. No one appeared to be peeking out of the windows, nor was Nigel or Tumblety conveniently arriving or departing.

She counted the number of houses to the end of the row, before Moncreiffe turned the corner and headed down the alley. “We should not be doing this during daylight, in such a readily identifiable carriage.”

“If we have occasion to come here again, I will borrow my grandfather’s tilbury or gig.” Moncreiffe slanted her a smile. “And each of us should wear a costume. Perhaps the duke’s white wig from the last century for me, and a towering red wig for you, with a bonnet perched precariously on top.”

She chuckled at the image his words painted.

Movement up ahead caught her eye. “That’s it,” she
whispered, struggling to sit still. “That’s the carriage from last night.” It was just being put away in the carriage house, the harness on the horses jingling in the crisp afternoon air as the coachman and tiger maneuvered everything into place. Like the trim on the house, the coach’s paint was faded and peeling, but the inside of the wheels and other trim was yellow, contrasting sharply with the black lacquer on the rest of the body. A decade ago it must have been quite an elegant equipage.

“Whiskey barrel with two legs.” Moncreiffe pointed with his chin at the rotund man with the whip in his hand. “Definitely the driver we saw.”

“Pull up,” Charlotte murmured.

Moncreiffe pulled on the reins to halt the gelding, still several houses up from Tumblety’s. He looped one arm around her shoulders and leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “Just in case they wonder why we’ve stopped.”

His warm breath stirred the fine hairs on her neck, sending a delicious shiver down her spine.

“Excellent idea,” she murmured. She inhaled the warm scent of his shaving soap. She’d once cuddled in similar fashion with Gauthier to allay a suspect’s suspicion, and they’d both struggled to keep from giggling.

Laughter was the furthest thought from her mind this time. She fought the urge to arch her neck, to invite Moncreiffe’s kiss. His lips were so close to hers. Just a little turn of her head and they’d meet. She clenched her fist in frustration and slipped her gaze toward the stables.

The driver spit a long stream of tobacco juice and strode into the carriage house, disappearing from sight.

Moncreiffe waited a few moments, then clicked his
tongue, and the gelding obediently started, at a slow walk. Charlotte took a steadying breath. She had work to do.

As they rolled past, she tried to take in every detail of the garden, its fence, the gate, and the back of the house. She even stood up for a quick look, and grabbed Moncreiffe’s shoulder in her excitement. “I saw him,” she hissed, sitting back down, her heart pounding.

“Who, Tumblety?” They reached the end of the alley, and Moncreiffe turned the horse back onto the main street.

She nodded. “The study is up on the first floor, just over from the door leading down into the kitchen. I’ll bet that’s where he’s keeping the snuffbox.”

“In the kitchen?”

Charlotte opened her mouth to retort, but saw the glimmer of mischief in Moncreiffe’s eye.

He quickly sobered. “Why do you think Tumblety has the snuffbox, and not Sir Nigel?”

“Why would Tumblety allow the use of his carriage if he were not in charge of their operation? And if I were in charge, working with a man like Sir Nigel, I wouldn’t entrust him with the safekeeping of so much as a handkerchief.”

“I agree. So what now?”

She took a moment to appreciate the tiny bubble of joy—it had been so long since a man had said he agreed with her. “When I stood up, I saw into the study, and there was a man sitting at the desk. You may call him Tumblety, but I knew him as Toussaint.” Her heart was still racing from the shock of recognition.

“Knew him, how?”

“Let’s just say that he and I have been after the same thing before. He even stabbed Steven once, because Steven got in his way.”

Moncreiffe edged the gelding to the side of the road. Carriages clattered past in both directions. He glanced back at the way they’d come and gripped her upper arm. “Did he hurt you?”

The intensity in his eyes made Charlotte shiver. She shook her head. “Toussaint knew I would stay behind to take care of Steven rather than follow, so he got away.”

“Do you think he saw you just now?”

“He was busy pouring a drink. I saw him in profile, which is why I’m certain of his identity. His proboscis is enormous.” She held her hand out to indicate a nose the size of which would make even Gauthier’s seem petite in comparison.

Moncreiffe dropped his hand from her arm, back to his lap. “All right, now that we’ve confirmed it was Sir Nigel who ended up with the box last night, and his partner is Toussaint or Tumblety, whichever is his true identity, what is your plan? Call in Bow Street? Tell Steven?”

She snorted. “He ignored my theory when I said Melisande was the one who stole the box in the first place. This morning he dismissed my suspicions of Sir Nigel and urged me once more to play the part of mindless miss. No, I’m leaving him out of it from now on, as he has tried to leave me out of it.
I
am going to be the one to take the box back from Toussaint.”

She could already picture the look of shock on Steven’s face when she held up the box in triumph.

Moncreiffe turned to face her, his knee resting against hers. “I can’t have heard you correctly.”

It’s not like she had stuttered. “It’s quite simple. Tonight, after Toussaint has gone to the gaming hell, I’m going to sneak into his study and steal back the snuffbox.”