“I believe in giving a thief a chance to reform, as you have good reason to know, sir,” the duchess said. “If you did not take it yourself, Macheath, then I have no doubt you know or can discover which of your henchmen did the deed.”
“I’ll find it, never fear,” he said grimly. “You can go on to London or stay here, just as you like. In fact, it will be easier if I don’t have to worry about you two.”
“Don’t concern yourself with us,” the duchess replied. “Just find my necklace. We can look after ourselves.”
“It looks like it!” he said and strode angrily from the room.
The duchess nodded her satisfaction. “That has set a fire under the young whelp. We’ll see results soon, Marianne. It is not worth our while leaving.”
She went to the door and peered out. “He is going downstairs,” she said. “This would be an excellent time for us to search his room, on the chance that he has hidden the diamonds there. I don’t think it likely, but it will be best just to make sure.”
Marianne heard this with grave misgivings. She knew from experience that “us” in such a context as this meant herself. “I don’t know which room is his,” she said.
“It shouldn’t be hard to find out. You may be sure every pretty maid in the place is familiar with it.” She gave the bell cord a jerk.
When a maid came to the door, the duchess said, “Tea, if you please. Oh, and while you are here, which room is Macheath’s? I want to call on him.”
“He’s in the Hawthorn Suite, ma’am, just down the corridor and around the corner on the left, but he’s not there now. He asked to have his mount sent ‘round for him.”
“Thank you. And send a man up to fix this lock at once.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As soon as the maid left, the duchess said, “You run along and break into Macheath’s room. Give it a good search mind. I would like to know who he really is. I have a feeling I’ve seen that nose before, and that bold, dark eye.”
“Fitz-Matthew, you thought,” Marianne reminded her.
“No, that’s not it, though it is something like. Fitz-Matthew was never in the army. I believe Macheath was. He has a military walk and that short hair. His dark complexion, too, could have been picked up in Spain.”
“He was in the army. He mentioned it.”
“Did he? I don’t recall that. Dragoons or infantry?”
“I don’t know.”
“See if you can find any personal papers. He might have kept his discharge. Hurry on now, before he comes back.”
“How can I get into his room? They won’t give me his key without his permission.”
“Use your wits, girl. You have a hairpin, haven’t you?”
Marianne went down the corridor, around the corner to the room with a Hawthorn branch on the door. The door was locked, of course. Her hairpin proved ineffective. All she accomplished was to twist it out of shape. She remembered that at the duchess’s mansion in Bath, one key fit all the bedroom doors. When she tried her own key in the lock, it was loose. She jiggled it about for a minute and found that by pressing the key to the right, the lock opened. She stepped into the room and closed the door quietly behind her.
It was like stepping into a barracks. The room was spartan, everything neat as a pin. That might be Miguel’s work. She surveyed the room, then went to the clothespress and began to search the pockets of the three jackets hanging there. She found a little loose change, a fishhook, a comb, and a few IOUs, but no diamonds and no identification. She continued searching, shaking out the boots and slippers, then on to the toilet table with its handsome array of brushes, shaving equipment, and a few modest cravat pins in a leather box. She drew open the drawers and fumbled quickly through the linens and small cloths, all without success.
The bed was next—under the pillows, under the mattress, under the bed itself. It had no canopy, so she didn’t have to climb up on a chair and examine the top. The last remaining place was the desk, and its surface held only a few sheets of writing paper, a blotting pad, a recent copy of the
Morning Observer,
an ink pot, and a pen. None of the blottings on the pad were legible. She opened the top drawer and saw a set of news clippings held together by a pin. She rifled through them. They dealt with various highway robberies, perhaps his own. A thousand pounds stolen from an M.R, a watch, and an emerald ring from his wife. One hundred guineas reward for his capture. Her heart thudded heavily.
There were others, many others. The victims were all notable, all connected either with government or the supplying of arms and goods to Spain. These would be the people Macheath had railed against getting fat while the veterans had to beg for a crumb. They were eminent enough men that the price on Macheath’s head rose from one hundred guineas to five hundred and then to a thousand. If the duchess knew that, she would turn him in in a minute.
She scanned them quickly and began rifling other drawers, looking for the diamonds. But in her heart she no longer believed Macheath had them. He was a good thief, insofar as intentions went. She found nothing to indicate his name. Other than the clippings and his clothes, the room was impersonal. It might have been hired as a temporary pied-a-terre by any gentleman of fashion.
She turned to leave. That was when she heard a soft footfall outside the door. It was probably only a servant or some other guest going to his room, but her heart beat faster. Then the steps stopped at the door, and her heart leapt into her throat. The knob turned silently. There was no tap at the door, as a servant would make. Who could it be?
The door did not open immediately. She stared, transfixed, looking about for some place to hide. With only a split second to think, she picked up the clothes brush from his toilet table and ran toward the door. She was concealed behind it as it opened. The first thing she saw was a hand holding a pistol. That was enough to throw her into a spasm of alarm. The next thing was the back of a man’s head with a curled beaver on it. Acting on instinct, she raised her hand and struck his head with the brush as hard as she could, planning to dart out the door when he fell to the ground.
Unfortunately, the man’s head was hard. The blow didn’t knock him unconscious, or even off his stride. It only knocked his hat off. He turned swiftly. The hand not holding a gun reached out and clamped onto her wrist. The brush fell to the floor as he swung her out where he could see her. She stared at the glittering eyes and hard-set jaw of Macheath in a fine fit of temper. He stared at her as if he’d never seen her before, as if she were just an enemy.
“The servant said you had left! I was just—just leaving you a note?” she said in a breathless rush, ending on a betraying, questioning tone.
“A billet-doux, no doubt,” he sneered. When she didn’t answer, he said, “Get out,” in a hard, cold voice. The same voice that had demanded they “stand and deliver.” He tossed the gun on the bed and stood, arms folded, waiting for her to leave.
“All right! I’m going, but you need not mount your high horse with me, Captain. How can you expect us to trust you, when you are an admitted thief?”
“I only stole diamonds. You have done worse.” He unfolded his arms and took a step toward her. The anger had left his voice, but it was still in his eyes, and in the frown between them. He spoke in low tones. “Last night you protected me. You let me believe you trusted me. You have stolen my—” His lips clamped shut, as if he had to force himself to hold in the fateful words. Marianne knew what he had been about to say. She had stolen his heart. His angry, wounded expression said it as clearly as words.
“How can we trust you? You won’t even tell us your name. That’s really what I was looking for. We didn’t think you had the diamonds.”
“What’s in a name?”
“You have a pat answer for everything,” she said with a
tsk
of annoyance.
“No more. I’m all out of answers.”
“You didn’t find the necklace?”
“I was just having a word with McGinty.” He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand, suggesting the words had been physical in nature. “He takes breakfast with his daughter, who lives in a cottage a mile down the road. I met him coming back, which is why I returned earlier than you expected. I am convinced he didn’t take the diamonds himself, but I wager he told one of his colleagues the duchess was here.”
“Have you any idea who?”
“I found out from Rooney who McGinty was drinking with after I relieved him of that bag of gold. I’m on my way to have a little chat with the fellow now.”
“Thank you.” Marianne stood a moment, wanting to apologize, or clear the air between them in some manner, but she had little experience in dealing with beaux. “I’m sorry I hit you. I hope I didn’t hurt you.” She waited for him to forgive her.
“I have a hard head, to match my heart,” he said with a wave of his hand.
“I don’t think you have a heart at all.”
He cast a long, searching look at her. “All men have a heart, even we thieves. I have heard a rumor even some ladies have one.”
As he was being sarcastic, she pouted and said, “I had best go now.”
“She told you to come?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get in? The lock isn’t damaged.”
“I used my own key. It fits the lock.”
He just shook his head. “I might have known. In the future, when you smash someone’s room, I suggest you determine first how long he will be away.”
“Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Are you going to London now?”
“Her Grace has every faith that you will find her necklace soon. She plans to wait and take it with her.”
“Is she as horrible to live with as I think?”
“I am all out of answers, too. I’m sorry, John.” His mood softened as she spoke his name. “About—you know, sneaking into your room when you weren’t here, hitting you.”
“It would have been more enjoyable had you come last night when I
was
here. No need to tell Her Grace that our keys open each other’s door, eh?”
She frowned as she considered the implications of this. Her fingers flew to her lips. “Oh!”
“A wasted opportunity. Ah well, let us hope there will be more opportunities in the future. And now, before you have a heart attack, I shall let you go.”
“I am one of those ladies who has a heart, am I?” she asked saucily.
“A hard one, like my head.”
“How hard it is won’t make any difference to Jack Ketch, though, will it? One thousand pounds’ reward.. .”
“So you have been reading my clippings. They have to catch me first.”
“If the duchess had known that last night when Officer Bruce called on her, I doubt you would be here now.”
“Will you tell her?”
“Of course not!”
“You want the reward for yourself?” he asked, smiling to show he trusted her.
“I’ll wait until it goes up to two thousand.”
“It has,” he said. “Ancaster wields a big stick.”
“Oh, John!”
“Don’t worry, Marianne. I’m through with all that. You have convinced me my life is worth more than a couple of thousand pounds.”
He held the door, chewing back a smile as she dashed out, peering over her shoulder to look back at him. She flew around the corner and to her own room. By the time she reached it, her frown had changed to a wary smile. She tried to remember at what point he had stopped being angry. It was when he had asked if the duchess made her go to his room. He had indicated before that he pitied her. Was that why he was sometimes friendly with her, because he pitied her? She didn’t want pity. But she did want John Macheath, and she wanted him before one of his “friends” turned him in for the reward.
Chapter Fourteen
It was late afternoon before Marianne saw Captain Macheath again. The duchess had become restless as the afternoon wore on and he still had not come. She had a few moments’ pleasure ragging at the locksmith who came to fix her lock, but other than that, her complaints were all about the captain.
“You are sure he knows who the scoundrel is who has my diamonds?” she asked half a dozen times.
“He said he got a name from Rooney.”
“I hope nothing has happened to him,” the duchess said, causing a new worry. “We would only deceive ourselves to think all the highwaymen are as civil as our captain,” she informed Marianne. That “our” had a very possessive sound to it. “Most of them would as lief put a bullet through their victim as not. We may count ourselves very fortunate to have been held up by an officer and a gentleman.”
This confirmed that the duchess had succumbed to a new flirt. She was not exactly a laughingstock among her friends, but it was known that if she took a fancy to a handsome face, its possessor would soon find himself the object of her generosity, whether he wanted it or not.
This generosity did not extend to financial help, however. It would take more than good looks to pry money out of her. Her assistance was confined to helping him make the proper connections, to finding a good position or a good wife. She was not at all lecherous. Marianne had long ago figured out these “beaux” were surrogate sons. The duchess had no sons. She had three daughters, all married long since and settled into motherhood— and in some cases, grandmotherhood.
“How dark it is, for the middle of the afternoon. We shan’t get away today, Marianne. We must make an early start tomorrow. That will still allow us one day to rest before the wedding. I shan’t deprive you of your tour of London. We shall stay a few days after the wedding before going on to Levenhurst with Eugenie.”
Eugenie was her eldest daughter, who made her home in Hertford, north of London. The duchess was to visit her for a week before returning to Bath. Eugenie’s husband was a Methodist. It was known that he conducted a prayer service for his household three times a day, did not believe in drink, and, if forced to dance, danced on only one leg. Marianne was not much looking forward to the visit, nor was the duchess for that matter.
“Let us order dinner. It will help pass the time,” the dame said a little later.
Dinner was ordered and soon arrived. The joint was condemned for toughness and the potatoes and peas for mushiness but both were consumed, along with a bottle of wine. Her Grace was just drawing out her cards when the tap came at the door. Macheath entered, looking hagged and somewhat battered, and still wearing his afternoon clothes.