The boys staggered up the last steps, then angled the clock—all gilt, fancy dials, and ornate hands—through the gate at the top of the area steps. Smythe held it back until they got through, then joined them, resetting the latch.
He nodded down the street. “That way.” His words were a thin whisper, but the boys heard and set off, eager to set the heavy clock down.
As at each of the previous three houses they’d hit, the unmarked black carriage was waiting around the corner.
Jemmie looked up, peering through the murky dark. The same man was on the box. He looked down, not at them but at the clock they were struggling with, and smiled. He nodded to Smythe. “Good work.” Reaching down, he handed Smythe a pouch.
Without being told, the boys lugged the clock to the back of the carriage. Smythe followed. He opened the boot. There was a blanket waiting to wrap the clock in. Jemmie and Dick juggled the clock while Smythe swathed it in the blanket, then Smythe loaded the bundle into the boot, between the bundle that was the vase they’d nicked from the first house, and the tightly wrapped statue they’d taken from the third. The painting they’d lifted from the wall of the second house’s library sat at the back of the boot.
Relieved of their burden, for an instant free of restraint, Jemmie looked at Dick, but before he could catch his friend’s eye and give the signal to run, Smythe shut the boot and dropped a heavy hand on each of their shoulders.
Jemmie bit back a curse and hung his head. As under Smythe’s guiding hand he trudged alongside Dick to the side of the carriage, he told himself—as he had for days, a week even—that a time would come.
When it did, he and Dick would run.
Unfortunately, the devil would be snapping at their heels; he held no illusions about Smythe. He would kill them if he caught them; they had to make sure that when they made their bid for freedom, they got clean away.
Smythe halted them beside the front of the carriage. “So we’re done for tonight. You got the list for tomorrow?”
The man nodded. “I’ll need to go over it with you.” He tipped his head toward the carriage. “Climb in. I’ll drive to somewhere we can talk.”
Smythe nudged the boys back and opened the carriage door. “Get in.” Once the boys had scrambled up, he joined them. Jemmie squished himself into the far corner of the seat; Dick did the same on the seat opposite. Smythe shut the door and dropped onto the seat beside Jemmie. The instant he did, the coach shifted and rolled off.
The driver drove slowly, as if his horse were plodding home. They left the big houses behind, then large trees appeared outside, enveloping the carriage in even deeper gloom.
A little way along, the carriage slowed, then halted. Smythe reached for the door handle, then paused; through the dimness he studied them. They heard the sounds of the driver climbing down. “Stay there,” Smythe growled.
He climbed out, shutting the door behind him.
Jemmie looked at Dick, then they both sat up and peered out of the windows beside them. The scene that met their eyes wasn’t encouraging; the trees the carriage had stopped beneath bordered a wide vista of open space. They’d left the worst of the fog behind; here it was little more than a veil, letting moonlight bathe the expanse, leaving them with nowhere to hide. To two urchins born and bred in the slums, the wide-open spaces weren’t comforting. If they ran, Smythe would hear them leave the carriage. He’d be able to see them, and run them down. He’d catch them for certain.
Disappointed, Jemmie looked across at Dick. Lips tight, he shook his head. Swallowing his fear, he looked at the windows on the other side of the carriage; through them, he could see Smythe’s shoulders, and those of the gentleman. They’d heard him speak; they knew he was a nob.
The pair had moved a few steps from the carriage; heads bent, their backs to the carriage, they were poring over something, presumably the list they’d wanted to discuss.
Exchanging another glance with Dick, Jemmie slid noiselessly from his seat and crept to that side of the carriage, ducking down by the door so he couldn’t be seen. A second later, Dick joined him.
Heads resting against the door panel, they heard the gentleman explaining where a particular statue would be. From what followed, it seemed they were to burgle more houses the next night. At one point, Dick, eyes wide, looked at Jemmie and mouthed, “Four more?”
Jemmie nodded. Then they heard Smythe ask, “What about the police?”
The gentleman replied. His voice was lower, more mellow; they couldn’t catch all his words. They did hear him say, “If any of your thefts tonight are reported, there might be more police on the streets tomorrow night. However, I’ll know where they’ll be, and they won’t be near the houses we’re interested in. Don’t worry. You’ll have a clear field. And as I said, those most interested in our activities will be distracted.”
The man listened to Smythe’s answering growl, then said, “If you pull off your end of things as well as you did tonight, all will go perfectly.”
Hearing the note of finality in that cultured voice, the boys flashed each other frightened looks and scurried back to their corners, wedging themselves into their former positions as Smythe yanked open the door.
He surveyed them, then snarled, “Come out—we’re leaving.”
The boys scrambled out of the carriage. The instant they did, Smythe snagged a leading rein through a harness loop on the rope holding up each boy’s baggy pants. Once both were secure, he shook the reins. “Come on—let’s go.”
They set off walking. Neither boy was silly enough to turn his head and look back at the carriage. They trudged on, over the open expanse, into the chilly night.
“I can’t believe it!” Stokes paced back and forth in his office at Scotland Yard.
From his position lounging against the side of Stokes’s desk, Barnaby watched him. Sergeant Miller hovered in the open doorway.
“There’s no way to tell who else has been burgled!” Stokes flung up his hands. “Damn it—it’s going to be hard enough to prove they’ve been burgled at all”—he flung a hand toward the door—“even when the staff are sure they have been.”
Barnaby cocked a brow at Miller. “The old butler is sure the urn was there?”
Miller nodded.
“But,”
Stokes said, his tone vicious, “he can’t be certain his master
hasn’t sold it. He—the old butler-cum-caretaker—knows it was a fabulously valuable piece that many others had admired, so it’s possible his master sold it the day before leaving town and forgot to mention it. So we’re going to have to check with the marquess first, before we put out any hue and cry for a thief. And the marquess is currently in Scotland for the shooting.”
Halting, Stokes drew in a huge breath, struggling to master his temper.
Impassively, Barnaby stated the obvious to spare Stokes the aggravation. “It’ll be days, more like a week, before we know.”
Stokes nodded tersely, his features like stone. “And by then…we’ll have no chance at all of recovering even such an identifiable piece.” Rounding his desk, he dropped into his chair. He stared across the room. “The truth is, if the caretaker hadn’t been the ex-butler, it’s unlikely he’d have known anything was gone. The marquess would have returned in February or March, and
then
we’d have heard about it.”
Relinquishing his position against the desk, Barnaby moved to one of the chairs facing it. He glanced at Miller. “The caretaker didn’t see anything useful?”
Miller shook his head. “He lives in the basement rather than the attics, or he wouldn’t have known anything at all. He’s old and sleeps poorly. He heard light footsteps pattering overhead, so he went up to look. He saw nothing amiss, but then thought he may as well check the windows. He found one unlocked, yet he’s sure he’d locked it. He didn’t worry because the window was barred, so he relocked it and headed back to bed. But he passed his master’s study on the way. He leaves the doors open when he’s in the house alone, so he can glance into rooms easily. When he looked in tonight, he knew something was wrong. Took him a while to realize that the holland cover on the table was lying flat where it should have been peaked over this Chinese urn that as far as he knows should have been there, but isn’t anymore.”
Stokes groaned. He stared at his desk. After a moment, he asked without looking up, “Has the superintendent sent that note to the marquess yet?”
His voice had lowered. Barnaby looked around, and saw Miller glance along the corridor.
“Looks like he’s still writing it,” Miller reported, voice lower, too.
Stokes sighed. He waved Miller in the direction he’d looked. “Go and make sure it’s sent off express. We have to cover ourselves at least that much.”
Once Miller had gone, Barnaby said, “From which comment I take it your superiors are still unwilling to admit they might have a series of extremely upsetting burglaries being committed right now, under their noses?”
Stokes nodded. “They don’t want to believe it. The thought sends them into a panic, and they don’t know what to do—and the truth is there’s precious little we
can
do, short of flooding Mayfair with constables, which is not only impractical but would cause a panic of its own.”
Heaving a huge sigh, Stokes sat back. He met Barnaby’s eyes. “The truth is we—the police force—are facing a political nightmare.”
He didn’t need to elaborate; if anything Barnaby could see the ramifications even better than Stokes. The police were going to appear inept fools, unable to protect the property of wealthy Londoners from the depredations of a single clever thief. In the current political climate, that was a setback the still youthful and evolving force didn’t need. Holding Stokes’s gaze, Barnaby flatly stated, “There has to be something we can do.”
Wrapped in her cloak, Penelope climbed the steps to Barnaby’s front door. Her brother’s carriage dallied by the curb even though she’d given the coachman—an ally of long standing—instructions to drive home to the mews behind Mount Street; he’d go once he saw her safely within doors. Steeling herself, she eyed the door, then raised a hand and rapped smartly.
Mostyn opened the door. His eyes widened.
“Good evening, Mostyn. Has your master returned yet?”
“Ah…no, ma’am.” Mostyn fell back, giving way as she walked in.
“Close the door. It’s chilly outside.” She pulled off her gloves and put back the hood of her cloak while he complied. When he turned to face her, she continued, “Your master and I were at Lord Montford’s when he—Adair—was called away urgently on some matter pertaining to our current investigation.” Turning, she walked toward the parlor. “I have to wait here for him to return.”
A statement of fact, one Mostyn didn’t question. He hurried to open the parlor door; she swept in and he followed. “Tea, ma’am?”
The fire was burning brightly. She walked to stand before it, warming her hands. “No, thank you, Mostyn.” She glanced around, then moved to the chair she’d occupied weeks before, when she’d first come to ask for Barnaby’s help. “I’ll just sit here by the fire, and wait.”
Sinking into the chair, she looked at Mostyn. “Please do retire—he may be quite late.”
Mostyn hesitated, but then bowed. “Very good, ma’am.”
He quietly withdrew, leaving the door ajar so she could see into the hall.
She listened to Mostyn’s footsteps fading, then, with a sigh, settled deeper into the chair and closed her eyes; she wasn’t content, but at least she was where she needed to be. She had no idea how long it might be before Barnaby came home, but she’d told Mostyn the unvarnished truth: she had to wait for him to return. She had to be there to see that he’d come to no harm—there was no point attempting to sleep until she knew he was safe.
The powerful, flaring need had hit her the instant he’d passed out of her sight at Lord Montford’s, in the moment she’d realized she had no notion what he was going out to face.
The game is on.
Who knew what Stokes had meant by that? They might, at that very moment, be chasing that devil Alert through alleyways and slums, out across the docks, dodging who knew what dangers.
Equally, they might be sitting in Stokes’s office, but how could she tell?
In the face of her need to know he was safe, the notion of falling asleep had been laughable. She’d traveled home with her mother, tipped her coachman the wink, waited for the house to quiet, then had slipped out the back door and into the mews.
She knew on some distant rational level that she was very likely worrying over nothing.
That didn’t change anything; the worry was still there. Potent, powerful, forceful enough to ensure she accepted that this was where she had to be—waiting for him to come home so she could see with her own eyes that he was unharmed.
She didn’t bother pondering why she felt so. The reason was no
longer in question; it simply was. Undeniable, and obvious, as Lord Montford had made abundantly clear.
She would have to deal with that reason soon, but for tonight…it was enough to see him home safe and sound. The rest, the reason, could wait…for now.
It was the dead of night when Barnaby let himself in through his front door. He and Stokes had waited at Scotland Yard, hoping some other burglary would be reported, but none had been. Eventually accepting that nothing further would be known until morning, they’d left for their respective beds.
Sliding the bolt home, he headed for the stairs. The parlor door had been left open; he glanced in—and halted.
In the red glow of the dying fire, she was little more than a shapeless bundle in the chair, her face hidden, tucked to one side. But he knew it was she—knew it in his bones through some primitive sense that would recognize her anywhere, no matter the lack of detail.
Silently he went in, crossing to stand before the chair.
In that moment, he couldn’t put a name to what he felt, to the emotions that swelled, welled, and poured through him. He held still, made no sound, let the moment stretch, savoring it, hoarding the feelings, and the emotions, greedily holding them to his heart.
No one had ever waited up for him; no one had ever been there waiting when he came home at night, often tired and dejected, disappointed, sometimes disillusioned. And of all the people in the world, she was the one he wanted to be there, to be waiting for his return. She was the one in whose arms, for him, comfort lay.