Cat Burglar in Training (3 page)

Damn straight.
I scurried for cover while the going was good. I strode past the kitchen, with its enticing waft of roast chicken, and up the stairs to Amber’s bedroom. I found her in bed, chatting to her doll and stuffed dog.

“You’ve already had a bath.” Disappointment rocketed through me when I studied her pixie face and damp brown curls. Bath and bedtime ranked high among my favorite pastimes with my daughter. Regret burdened me along with guilt. I’d missed quite a few since our return to Oakthorpe.

She grinned, and my heartstrings tugged with a wave of love. “Hannah helped me, Mama. I had bubbles. Pink ones that came right up to my chin.”

“Did you?” I tucked a stray curl behind her ear and pressed a quick kiss to her satin-soft cheek, savoring her scent of flowers and little girl. “Would you like a story?”

Her head bobbed with enthusiasm. “I’ve picked one out.” She reached for a battered book of fairytales. “Cinderella with all the voices, please.”

A bittersweet moment. I sent a silent prayer winging skyward when I opened the pages to Cinderella.
Please help me keep her safe
.

One hour later, I was back in my battered blue Mini on the road for London. My destination was the Kensington home of Father’s friend and favorite receiver. While I drove down the A24, I considered how much I had to lose. I relaxed my hands on the steering wheel, because despite my qualms and spiraling fears, I was fresh out of options.

The trip into London didn’t take long. It was half-past eight when I drove down Kensington High Street. People were still walking the paths in Kensington Gardens, admiring the flowers and gawking at Kensington Palace. While I waited for the lights to change, I chuckled at the antics of a chubby gray squirrel performing for a bunch of Japanese tourists. Minutes later, I pulled up outside a block of flats flanking Kensington Square. I stopped the car and climbed out, wiping moist hands on my jeans-clad thighs.

Showtime. Maybe. Probably. The truth was I had to go through with this job. Alistair Seagrove would help me rehearse my plan and, with his contacts, I’d liquidate the jewels with no questions asked.

The hunter-green door to number six flew open before I had time to grasp the heavy iron knocker.

“Evie, girl. Look at you. All grown up.” Grace Seagrove squeezed me in a tight hug of greeting. “You’re early.”

I smiled weakly, feeling like the same kid I’d been last time I saw her. “Hi, Grace. I’ve got the jitters,” I confessed when I stepped inside.

“Alistair will be pleased to hear it. A little adrenaline gives an edge. Don’t you worry, Evie, girl. The viscount is the best, and he’s trained you. You’ve done the prep with him and Ben. You’ll be fine.” Grace grinned, revealing a flash of gold in one front tooth. “Besides, Alistair has promised me a week in the Caribbean with his share of the proceeds. I want that holiday. I’m counting on you, Evie, girl.”

Alistair appeared behind Grace. “Nothing like a little pressure to make a job go well,” he said in a wry tone. “Leave the dear girl in peace. I can see she’s nervous enough without you adding to the load.”

“Do you want a cuppa? Something to eat?” Grace asked.

The thought of eating made my stomach somersault. “No, thanks.”

Alistair smiled gently. “A cup of tea, Grace. Bring the girl some tea.”

Now that I was in London, my decision to continue in my father’s footsteps seemed even more irrevocable. I wondered if I’d manage to force down a cup of tea. Nevertheless, I nodded and watched Grace waddle in the direction of the kitchen.

“Come along,” Alistair said in a crisp upper-class accent. “Charles asked me to run through the plan with you to make sure you’ve everything covered.”

I followed his thin, upright figure into an office, nerves doing a number on my knees. For a moment, I wondered if I might buckle, so I zeroed in on Alistair’s desk and fell against the heavy oak for support.

Alistair produced a set of blueprints and unrolled them on the desktop, pinning the corners down with books, a stapler and an empty china mug.

“Run me through your plan, Evie.”

I pictured the eighteenth-century house in Hampstead. The security system was top of the line, except for one thing. The owners hadn’t alarmed the house past the second floor, thinking no one would be foolhardy enough to enter through the old servant quarters on the third floor. Unlucky for them, I was that fool.

“Arrive in Hampstead around midnight, double-check Perdita Moning isn’t at home. Her husband is away in Brussels on business,” I added, anticipating Alistair’s query. “Deal with the security cameras at the entrance and also the neighbor’s cameras—the ones that scan the street. Circle to the rear of the property and climb to the third floor. Assess window lock. Enter building. The jewels are usually kept in a safe in the Monings’ bedroom on the second floor. If I can’t open the safe manually, I’ll blow it. Take jewels and leave.”

“Don’t get cocky, Evie. Tell me where the alarm sensors are located. One mistake, that’s all it will take, and you’ll have the cops or a security company there in minutes.”

Did he have to remind me?
I rattled off the requested details.

“Excellent,” Alistair said. “Do you have your equipment?”

Talk about being back at school. “Yeah. All present and accounted for as per our plan.”

“Good. Good. You’re more organized than Charles. He was forever forgetting his gear.” He paused, the good humor evaporating from his face. “How is he?”

“Good days, bad days.”

The door flew open without warning. “Charlie not too good, then?” Grace
tsk-tsk
ed as she placed the tea tray on the desk. “Terrible thing, arthritis.”

Alistair accepted the steaming mug of tea his wife passed him with a slight smile. “Eavesdropping again?”

“I wanted to make sure my holiday in the Caribbean was still looking good. And to tell Eve not to worry. I consulted the cards. This job will go smooth as silk.”

She had to be kidding. I managed a weak smile. All I could think about was the myriad things that could go wrong.

A fraction before midnight, I parked my Mini about four streets away and made my way by foot to the Georgian mansion at number twelve, Admiral’s Walk. I slunk along the quiet streets, dressed in full cat-burglar gear—black leggings, black jumper, my long blond hair bound in a tight French braid and tucked out of sight under my clothing. A black ski mask covered my head, and I’d pull it lower when necessary. On my back I carried a black nylon pack filled with every conceivable tool required by the well-dressed cat burglar, and I stuck to the shadowed areas not pierced by the streetlights.

After spraying black paint across the lens of every camera I passed and checking the street in both directions, I scaled the London plane tree, resplendent with new spring growth, right outside number ten. I crawled along a sturdy limb until I had a good view of the Moning house and the garden.

The air smelled damp, making me suspect a mist would roll in tonight to cover the nearby heath. After I watched for the requisite ten minutes, followed by another five minutes for safety’s sake, the vicinity remained quiet. I wriggled along the limb and dropped into the garden at number twelve. I brushed the bark off my leggings and donned my gloves. Crouching low, I crept across the manicured lawn, past an archway draped with old-fashioned scented roses, making sure I kept to the looming shadows cast by the stand of English oaks.

A low growl was the only warning I received. I froze. Another growl made the hairs at the back of my neck stand and salute. Hell! A freaking dog.

I slowly turned. The dog stood a few feet from me. Black. All teeth and fangs. Damn and blast. The creature hadn’t been here the three times I’d checked out the premises. And if it had a kennel, I hadn’t seen it. Without taking my gaze off the mutt, I eased the pack from my back and fumbled with the zip. My hand closed around a doctored cheeseburger, and I let it fall to the ground at my feet. The dog sniffed the burger and woofed the treat down in two bites before staring fixedly at me. It growled. Father had assured me pills would do the trick without hurting whatever ingested them. I hoped he knew what he was talking about. No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than the creature swayed.

I bolted. The dog gave a feral growl and sprang. Fabric ripped. My steps faltered. For an instant I panicked, but suddenly the dog let go. Without looking back, I raced to the back of the house, my legs pumping like a hundred-meter sprinter at the Olympic Games. I scampered up a sturdy vine and only then glanced back, my chest burning for air.

The dog lay still on the ground. I turned to survey the rip in my leggings and shifted uneasily. My backside smarted like the devil.

Smooth as silk.

Huh, Grace had read someone else’s cards, not mine.

I scaled the wall in no time, stubbornly ignoring the pain in my arse. A ledge, a few inches wide, provided a place for me to collect myself. With a deep breath, I pulled a spoon and a jar of smooth peanut butter from my pack and plastered a thick layer on the window pane. Next, I retrieved a tube of cardboard cut to size—well, a fairly accurate guesstimate—and carefully pressed the cardboard to the peanut butter. A sharp tap with my hammer cracked the glass, but the sound was minimal. I replaced my tools in my pack, placed the glass-covered cardboard aside and reached through to open the lock. My entry via the nursery room window was clean and professional.

Lucky for me the nursery was empty of everything save the lingering scent of lemon furniture polish. After hiding the cardboard inside a built-in wardrobe, I exited the nursery, closed the door and crept down to the next floor. At this stage luck deserted me again.

A footfall.

I froze on the second-floor landing, alarm hammering through me. There was someone at home. Laughter—both male and female—came from a bedroom. Had the husband returned? Why were they there with the lights off?

Duh!
Stupid question. It was obvious why the room was dark.

Should I abort my mission or risk discovery?

As I hesitated, a light flicked on. I quickly ducked into the nearest room, my pulse racing. The stairs creaked under the weight of footsteps as the couple passed me and walked down to the ground floor. The front door opened.

“Darling, tomorrow night?” the man asked.

“Yes. James isn’t back until Friday,” Perdita replied.

Kissing followed—loud enough to make me roll my eyes. After what seemed like ages, the door shut again and footsteps approached me, ascending the stairs.

What the hell was I going to do now? Hit her over the head? Maybe snatch the jewels and run. I mean, she was fooling around—she deserved everything coming.

I finally rejected my ideas as stupid. A girl needed some scruples. Physical violence was one of mine. Every muscle in my body taut with tension, I peeked through a crack in the door. Perdita strolled past me, humming softly. My breath caught when I saw she was wearing her ruby necklace. I watched until she disappeared into what I assumed was her bedroom.

Before I could settle into a comfortable position and figure out what to do, the front door opened again. Bloody hell, the place was like Paddington Station at rush hour. I hunkered down and waited to see what developed.

Stealthy footsteps padded up the stairs, then headed to the room where Perdita had entertained her lover. Surely this wasn’t another one?

“What do you want?” Perdita demanded.

I peered through the crack but couldn’t see a damn thing. What now?

A scream froze me to the spot.

A gunshot.

I jerked back instinctively at the crack of sound. Footsteps thudded past my hiding place in rapid retreat, too quickly for me to catch a glimpse. The front door slammed and silence fell. No more laughter. Not a single bloody sound. I hovered indecisively. Dithered, really. Finally everything remained silent, and I cautiously tiptoed from the guest room toward Perdita’s bedroom.

When I was a few feet from the doorway, a cuckoo burst from its clock, nearly giving me a coronary. I leapt in fright but managed to hold back an accompanying squeak. Once I was sure my legs would work properly, I slinked closer to the bedroom.

I didn’t need illumination to tell something was badly wrong. I could smell it. An indescribable scent, layered with expensive perfume and sex.

“H-hello?” It was no surprise to me I sounded shit-scared. When no one answered, I hesitated then stepped into the room, not because I wanted to but because I had to know.

Blood.

Everywhere.

It stood out on the white satin sheets, stark red splotches highlighting the dead woman sprawled on the very corner of the king-size bed. I gulped, my stomach threatening to revolt. It was Perdita Moning, all right, her ruby necklace dangling from one hand as if her second visitor had interrupted her while taking it off.

Strangled laughter filled the room. Slightly hysterical. A little crazed. But hell, not every day a girl witnesses a murder.

I stepped closer and stopped abruptly. If I was wise, I’d be out of here in case a neighbor had heard the gunshot and called the police. And although I’d heard the murderer leave, they might return and realize I’d been in the house. I had a daughter who was in enough danger as it was—a hell of a lot to live for. Amber was only five, and I wanted to see her reach adulthood.

Indecisive, I stared. The light caught the ruby necklace. Mesmerized by the lustrous sparkle, I shook myself. More red. But I scooped it up, plucking it from her hand. When I swung around I saw a pair of matching ruby earrings and a rather nice diamond-and-sapphire choker the woman had left sitting on her dresser. They should have been in the safe, but who was I to protest security? I hardened my heart. Perdita Moning was dead. She wouldn’t need them anymore.

About to leave, one more thing caught my attention.

It was a photo of three children. Innocent fun preserved from a happy, carefree day at the beach. Another shot, a formal portrait of one child, claimed my attention. I started to wheeze. I tore at my jumper, trying to loosen it around my neck, but the gloves were useless. I ripped one off and yanked at my buttons. Concentrate.
Breathe
.

When I gained a semblance of control, I glanced back at the photo. My trembling hand reached out to brush a finger across her face. The child wasn’t my daughter, but she was a dead ringer. I swallowed my shock.

A clue—at last.

You see, I don’t know the identity of my daughter’s father.

But, now that I’d seen this photo, I intended to discover the truth.