A Thief Before Christmas (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

“What? What is it?” I handed over the softly scented letter, strangely not surprised when James let out a soft whistle of recognition. He grinned at me, turning the letters over to show me both. “Notice anything similar?”

My gut tightened, and I was glad that I was looking down so that Master James could not see the rising flush of embarrassment that climbed my cheeks.
He truly didn't know!
Grandfather had never told him, probably embarrassed, as well he should have been, that he had not taught me all I should know, before he left this world for the heaven he otherwise richly deserved. But either way, how was I supposed to tell any similarities between the two letters with James now jiggling them eagerly, bursting with the desire to share his news?

I blinked, my eyes blurring with angry tears at my own failure to read the words clearly, raking my gaze over the first letter, then the second, then the first—then the second, then—

And then I saw it.

“Those . . . those are the same names,” I said at last. A quick look up confirmed my suspicion, as a broad smile spread across James's face.

“Indeed they are,” he crowed. “
She
talks about
him
being a merchant, while
he
talks about
her
tied to hearth and home. These letters are not only
about
each other, but”—he waved them under my face again, as if by sheer motion he could impress their contents upon me—“they are love letters
to
each other!”

“Love letters!” I gasped, my eyes going wide. “You must read them to me. Both of them!”

“Oh, pish, Meg, read them your—”

“No!” I said, doing my best to bat my eyes at him with girlish fervor. I was a girl, so I had that in my favor, and “fervor” was an act I'd honed to a fine art over long years. James had precious chance of resisting me. “I just, I just so want you to hear it in your voice, Master James. If you don't mind? Please?”

The second round of batting did the troupe master in, and he sighed heavily.

“Very well, Meg. At least they're short. This one”—he brandished the letter with the feminine writing—“is actually the sweeter of the two. ‘My dearest Henry,' it begins. . . .” And as he spoke, I imagined the fine lines of the woman's writing, written with such intense force of emotion. She had loved Henry since she'd first met him three years ago, when he was just an apprentice in his father's business, and they'd come to Leeds as part of their journeys throughout England to sell their wares and build their name. She'd loved everything about him, from his graceful hands to his kindness to children to even the cant of his head and the smile in his eyes. And though she knew she never had a chance with him—

“Wait, what?” I interrupted, perplexed. “Never had a chance? But why?”

“Mmm,” James said. “It doesn't say. But in any event, although she knew she never had a chance with him, she wanted him to know that he was the most perfect of men, and that he would make a fine husband, and that whosoever should be lucky enough to marry him, would be the happiest woman in England.”

I wrinkled my nose at that. It had been a reasonably good letter up to that point. Still, I was left wanting. “That's it?” I pressed. “She doesn't say anything about him meeting her at the village oak tree to share a midnight kiss?”

James frowned at me over the top of the letter. “What village oak tree?” he asked. “And what would you know about sharing midnight kisses?”

“Oh, leave off,” I said. “What does Henry's letter say?”

James looked as if he might change his mind, but as I schooled my look into one of earnest winsomeness, he relented again. “Henry is more bold in his praise,” he said, snapping to attention as if he were a young soldier giving a critical report. “‘My dearest Lucretia, you cannot know who I am, but to me you are the fairest flower in all of England, and I would give anything for a mere moment with you to express my truest heart's desire.'”

“Just a moment?” I rolled my eyes. “That would be a pretty brief expression.”

“Do you want me to finish his letter or not?” James demanded, petulant. “I would be happy to insert my own script if you prefer.”

“No, no,” I said. “Carry on. That bit about her being the fairest flower is nice.”

James grimaced but continued on obligingly. “‘I spend my days in thoughts of you and my nights in dreams that you are in my arms. I know it is a sin, but—'”

I made to protest, but James's dark look convinced me to hold my tongue. “‘But I cannot help my heart. Would that the course of my life been other than what it is, and I would make you mine this day, this hour, this very minute. But we all must honor our obligations to our family. I will content myself with knowing that you will make—'”

“Wait, let me guess,” I said dryly. “A fine wife, for whosoever should be lucky enough to wed her.”

“Near enough.” James grinned. “And he signs it: ‘Yours, o heart of my heart, Henry.'”

“Well, piffle,” I said, rocking back on my heels. James handed the letters back to me. “What are the odds that we would pick the pockets of two lovebirds who don't know of the other's affection?”

He shot me a wry glance. “Pretty good, I should say. And it's not so surprising as that. If the two were longing to be in each other's company, then it stands to reason that they would try to be near each other at every opportunity. What better way to justify proximity than the latest production of the Golden Rose?”

“Except it didn't work.” I sighed. “These notes were never sent, never opened. And now that their letters are lost, who knows when Henry or Lucretia will have the nerve to write so openly again?”

Master James was unwinding his scarf and peeling off his heavy cloak. “And this would not be our problem, now would it?” he chided. Then he saw my face. “Oh no, Meg. No.”

“But why not?” I asked earnestly, holding the letters to my breast. “It is such a simple thing at that, isn't it? We figure out who Henry and Lucretia are, find a way to get the right letters into the right hands, and let true love take its course! It would be a wonderful gift to give for Christmas, would it not?”

“We may not even be here by Christmas,” James said severely. “You know as well as I do the lot we took today was unusually good. The townspeople of Leeds might well become suspicious if they start missing their Christmas presents and we're still underfoot.”

“Then we get a patron!” I insisted. “We've done it before.”

“We've done it before because your grandfather was alive.” Master James's lips tightened, and I instantly saw my mistake. James was a proud young man, and he ran our troupe ably, but he was not Grandfather. My grandfather had known the best and richest families in every shire and village, and we'd traded easily and often on the good nature of his long-term friends. But Grandfather was dead these three months' past, and James had quickly learned that doors that had been open to any friends of Grandfather were not so easily breached by the old man's troupe without him. The first refusal had been the hardest; the second had ended James's attempts. We'd adjusted quickly, of course. We had always supplemented the patronage of families with our own thievery. Now we just had to consider ourselves more professional. But I still silently chafed that James had never put me forward to make the requests. As Grandfather's offspring, I could at least have tried to preserve the thread of his goodwill.

James, however, was male. Which meant that avenue of logic was hopeless to him. He would never believe that a woman could do any job as well as a man. At least not any job worth doing.

Still, he was my troupe master, and I owed him loyalty.

“Master James, I meant no disrespect,” I said. “I only suggested it as an idea.”

“An' it's a poor one,” James replied, his tone as short as any I'd ever heard from him. Seeing my distress, he sighed, rubbing his hand through his hair. “Meg, look. We are not long for this place. I give us a week, tops, less if Meredith has her baby and we can be on our way. If you can find your two young lovers and get them back their letters, I give you leave to do so. But you must be careful. You cannot get caught. And the moment I say we must leave this town, I will mean it. We must go.”

I'd already started grinning well before he'd finished, and he knew the battle was l
ost. He sighed again with true remorse.

“Just don't get caught,” he said once more.

CHAPTER FIVE

The sun broke clear and fine the next morning, Sunday, and my plan was set.

Finding young lovers who were hidden even from themselves would normally not be easy. Leeds was a thriving town, never more so than now, it seemed, with the demand for woolen goods quite overwhelming the craftsmen who created them. Starting in the midst of the bustling industrial section of town would be madness. And, truth to tell, having the gentleman's name—Henry—was not as much of a help as you might think. For thirty long years England had been ruled by a King Henry. . . . It had become the most favored name in the land for male babies. Most likely this Henry was a member of the Dobbs family, since his letter bore that seal, but even that was not a guarantee.

I had other ideas though.

James had done me the favor of reading the letters from Henry and Lucretia aloud, and so I knew that Lucretia's family was of prominent stature in the area. That, and the mere facts that she was able to write and had the parchment and ink and wax with which to fashion a proper letter, reduced the pool of likely women significantly. I was also fairly certain that Lucretia was young, and had never been married. No widow would go on about the potential husbandship of a man she fancied. . . . She would be more savvy than that.

I had no intention of ever marrying myself, of course, and couldn't see the point of such unions in many cases. But
love
was a different thing altogether. Love was worth helping along, even if a marriage did not result in the end. The world could always use more love.

Exuding an air of self-possessed confidence, I smoothed my hand down my skirts. I'd selected the smart green-and-black panel-slashed gown for this occasion. It looked more impressive than it was, given that the velvet was parchment thin and the woolen bits were frayed at the edges. But from a distance, in the shadows, or even to an undiscerning eye, in a gown such as this I could pass as a young woman of quality. If James had noticed my nicer garb this morning during the breaking of our fast, he didn't mention it. He also didn't raise a brow when I slipped out of the common room of the Cock's Crow Inn, my hair brushed to a fine sheen and tucked beneath a lovely hat we'd acquired somewhere between Nottingham and Windsor last season. We used the hat mostly in our performances, but it would suit me well for the act I was about to play.

I took the steps of the church quickly and slipped into a pew, not even taking a moment to admire the lovely hangings of spruce and berries that festooned the heavily carved doors in celebration of the season. As it was, I was late . . . and grateful that the service was about to come to an end. I could do pious with the best of them, but it still wore on a girl's soul.

I knelt and stood and bowed and prayed; I even sang when the occasion demanded it. Mostly, however, I watched the crowd.

I drew some attention, of course. I was a woman alone, and even in a church that was a curious thing. Still, this was also Leeds, so no one looked too closely to see who was attending services and who was not. For every father in the building, another was either “taken ill” or “traveling to care for family” or whatever excuse he needed to justify his time spent working rather than celebrating the Lord's Day. For every good wife kneeling in prayer, another was tending to what must be done to keep the family business running strong.

Once the service ended, I easily fell in with the knot of young women who exited the church in a cluster of bobbing heads and wagging tongues. I trailed after them but hesitantly. These were not the women I wanted, exactly. I did not think my lovelorn miss would be holding her own in a gaggle of geese. But anywhere young women gathered, there was the hope that Lucretia might be somewhere close by.

“What, ho, who are you?”

I was startled by the sharp voice and craning neck of the young woman closest to me, an unfortunately gowned girl of middling height and spotty complexion. Her hair was a riotous red that was currently forced into submission beneath a smart if ill-hued hat, and her matching sickly green gown looked expensive, for all that it was ugly. “I haven't seen you before.”

“Mathilda Mathison,” I said quickly, turning full to face her with a flounce of my gown. I drew the attention of all the girls, of course. I felt their keen eyes on me, stripping my gown bare. Could they see the flaws in the fabric? Ordinarily, I would say yes. But the trick was to keep moving, and so move I did, flapping my arms with vigor. “Oh, do go on and enjoy your day! I did not mean to intrude. You are all so sweet seeming, though, and I've been traveling for such an age. I confess, I just wanted to hear some pleasant conversation for a bit before I returned home to my father's rooms. We're in town to sell our—”

“Yes, yes, well, you may certainly accompany us.” I was interrupted by the most regal girl in the bunch, her gown jet-black and velvet and looking as if she'd finished sewing it only that morning, and her cloak a fur-lined vision
. “Just pop along to the back, shall you?”
And keep quiet,
came the unspoken command. This was the leader of the group, and for good reason. She was lovely: slender and blond with sky blue eyes and a rose-petal mouth. I put her age at about eighteen, and that made her a bit older than most of the girls in her entourage.