My Favorite Thief (15 page)

“Thank you so much, Lady Bryden.” Charlotte smiled at the woman, liking her immensely for the obvious affection she felt toward her son. “I would be delighted to attend.”

“Excellent. I'll just go and have a word with Lord Bryden, and we'll see if we can agree upon a date. He pretends to be too old to enjoy such childish activities, but the truth of the matter is, Harry, nothing pleases that man more than his family—you know that, don't you?”

“Yes, Mother. I know.”

“Of course you do.” She pushed the lock of hair off his forehead once again. “Remind me to trim your hair tonight, Harry, it is getting entirely too long. You come to me after Miss Williams has given you your bath, all right? I can't trust her with the scissors—the last time she cut Frank's hair put a pudding bowl on his head, then trimmed the front so short he looked perfectly ridiculous. Took months to grow out. Thank goodness your brother didn't notice—he's still too young to care what he looks like. Have you met Harry's little brother and sister?” she asked Charlotte.

“No, Lady Bryden. I've not yet had that pleasure.”

“Well maybe the next time you come over to play with Harry you can see them. Harry doesn't play with them, of course, being a good deal older, but he does take extremely good care of them. I trust him more than I trust that Miss Williams. Do you know she once left Margaret and Frank alone in the nursery playing with paints? By the time I went to check on them, Frank had painted his baby sister the most ghastly shade of green—he said he was trying to make her look like a turtle! I wanted to discharge Miss Williams on the spot, but Harry begged me not to. He said Frank and Margaret adored her, and that was worth a good deal more than some ruined clothes and all the soap it took to clean poor Margaret's skin. He was right, of course. Harry has always been unusually mature for his age—”

“Forgive me, your lordship,” apologized Telford, rushing breathlessly into the study. “I went to fetch Lady Bryden her tray, and when I returned to the drawing room she was gone.” He cast her a wounded look as he finished, “My lady, you promised me that you would stay there until I returned.”

She blinked, mystified. “Did I? Well, I'm sorry, Telford, but I had to find my Harry and meet his lovely little friend here. Besides, you had only to ask Lord Bryden, and he would have told you where I had gone. Wasn't he still in the drawing room?”

Telford glanced worriedly at Charlotte, uncertain how much she had gleaned about Lady Bryden's precarious state of mind. “His lordship was not there when I returned,” he answered truthfully.

“Well, then, he probably went into the library to have a cigar. Have you met little Charlotte, Telford?”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

“Lady Bryden has been telling me the most wonderful stories about her children,” Charlotte said, trying to put the butler at ease. It was obvious to her that he was most protective of his charge.

“Did Harry tell you about the time he sneaked into the pantry and ate an entire jar of Mrs. Shepherd's preserved cherries?” enquired Lady Bryden gaily.

Harrison winced. “I don't think Charlotte needs to hear that, Mother—”

“They were soaked in pure Jamaican rum,” she continued, ignoring him. “Then he went to his room and promptly threw up red cherry juice all over himself. When the maid went in and found him lying on the floor, she thought there had been a murder.” Her laughter filled the study as she finished, “Poor Harry has not been able to look at a cherry since!”

“Telford, did you fetch Lady Bryden her tray?” Harrison asked.

“Yes, my lord. I left it in the drawing room.”

“Wouldn't you like to finish your tea, Mother?”

“Not until I speak with your father and let him know that you are all right, Harry. You know how he worries.”

Harrison prayed for patience. “Telford, would you ask my father to join my mother for tea in the drawing room.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Harry,” his mother scolded. Her voice became slightly agitated as she added, “You know very well your father can't join me for tea.”

Harrison regarded her cautiously, wondering if she had suddenly shifted to one of her rare moments of lucidity. “Why not?”

“Your father doesn't drink tea. Hasn't for years.”

“Then Telford will bring him a glass of Scotch. He still drinks Scotch, doesn't he?”

“Harry!” Lady Bryden sounded shocked. “I don't approve of you talking about spirits in front of your little friend—whatever will her parents think?”

“That's all right, Lady Bryden,” Charlotte hastily assured her. “My father has been known to indulge in a glass of Scotch himself.”

“Well, really, children, this is not an appropriate subject for either of you,” Lady Bryden chastised. “Now, Telford, I would like you to bring these children some of those lovely little ginger cakes Mrs. Griffen baked this morning, all right?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“It was delightful to meet you, my dear,” Lady Bryden said, smiling at Charlotte. “Do come again whenever you please.” Her gaze grew shadowed. “We don't seem to have many visitors, these days.”

“I would be delighted to come for another visit, Lady Bryden,” Charlotte told her.

“Very good. Don't forget about Harry's party,” she chimed as she went sailing out the door. “It's going to be wonderful. Come along, Telford, we have to start making arrangements.” She beckoned for the dutiful butler to follow.

Harrison closed the door, pressed his forehead against it, and slowly counted to three. Then he turned to look at Charlotte.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not making her feel uncomfortable.”

Charlotte nodded. “How long has she been like that?”

“A long time.” He went to his desk and poured himself another drink.

“Was she like that when you were a child?” Charlotte could well imagine how confusing Lady Bryden's peculiar hold on reality would have been for a little boy.

“No.”

Harrison took a swallow of brandy and stared at the painting of his mother and her three children that hung on the wall opposite his desk. His father had commissioned it when Margaret was about a year old, Frank was five, and Harrison was eleven. They were seated in the garden at their country home, beneath the brilliant green foliage of a splendid tree that had been planted some two hundred and fifty years earlier, when the first Lord Bryden had begun the construction of the house. Harrison's father had grown up playing beneath that tree, and he had wanted a portrait of his beloved wife and children beneath it. He had said that every time he looked at the painting, he would see everything that was most important to him.

“Where are your brother and sister now?”

“Margaret is married and living in France, with two children of her own. Frank lives in Chicago, where he is trying to establish himself as something of an entrepreneur.”

“Does your mother ever see them?”

“Rarely. Margaret used to visit before she had her children, but now she finds it difficult to travel with them. Also, my mother can be unpredictable. Sometime she is happy and pleasant, but she also has moments where she can be rather volatile. Margaret, understandably, does not like to expose her children to their grandmother's moods. They are quite young and ill-equipped to deal with it.”

“What about your brother?”

“Crossing the Atlantic takes over a week. He can't afford the time.”

“Does he write to her?”

“He did at first. Unfortunately, she never really understood from whom the letters were coming. For the most part, in her mind Frank is the five-year-old boy in this painting. She can't seem to grasp that her son is grown and living an ocean away, or that her daughter is married with children of her own.”

“And what about you? Does she ever recognize you as a man?”

“She used to, but her episodes of being somewhat normal have become more infrequent. It will be difficult to convince her I don't need her to cut my hair,” he added ruefully, raking his hands through it.

“I could trim it for you, if you like. Then it wouldn't upset her anymore.”

He regarded her in wonder. It had been a long time since anyone other than a servant had offered to do anything for him. “Thank you, but that won't be necessary. But thank you.”

He was staring at her intently, making Charlotte feel self-conscious. “I'll be going, then,” she said. “Poor Oliver must be wondering what has become of me, as I told him I would only be a few minutes—”

“Charlotte.”

“Yes?”

“Let the police help you,” he urged quietly. “God knows, I never thought I would be espousing the merits of the police, but they are used to dealing with situations like this. They can find this scum who is threatening you, put him in jail, and that will be it.”

She shook her head. “The police cannot help me.”

“Why not?”

What could she tell him? she wondered miserably. Because the man who was threatening her was actually her own father? Because he had vowed to beat her mercilessly if she told anyone, and she knew too well that he never made an idle threat? Because if she didn't get him the money, he would do something too horrible to contemplate to her family? Because the police would only listen politely and fill out a report, and then do absolutely nothing? There were thousands of men on the streets of London who fit the description of Boney Buchan. They knew the dark warrens of the tenement buildings and the stinking mazes of alleys and back streets far better than any police constable. The police could never find Boney Buchan. But he could find Charlotte.

And when he did, he would punish her for disobeying him.

“They cannot,” she repeated, her voice hollow.

Harrison grit his teeth in frustration. His headache was intensifying now, warning him that he would soon have to resort to laudanum after all. Fighting the pain, he went to his desk and opened the safe hidden in the lower cabinet. He extracted an envelope, then locked the safe and cabinet once more.

“Here is eight hundred pounds,” he said, handing her the envelope. “It's all the bank notes I have at the moment. I can arrange for more, but unfortunately it will take a few days. In the meantime, see if that is enough to take care of your situation.”

Charlotte stared at it, surprised. Then she reached out and took it. “Thank you.”

Harrison nodded. She seemed achingly beautiful to him in that moment, a beguiling combination of strength and vulnerability. He found himself wanting to reach out and touch her, to pull her close and wrap his arms around her, to feel her body pressing against him, all softness and strength and heat. He didn't want her to face whatever dark forces were threatening her alone, and yet he sensed that she would not welcome his assistance. Given his disastrous performance at his last two break-ins, he supposed he did not inspire a great deal of confidence—even in himself. He pressed his fingers against one temple, trying to ward off the advancing pain. His vision was starting to blur, warning him that he had to take refuge in his chamber, soon.

“Forgive me if I don't see you to the door,” he murmured, pulling on the velvet rope that would summon Telford. “Telford will escort you back to your carriage.”

Charlotte regarded him with concern. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” He braced his hands against his desk and pretended to study a document lying upon it. The type on it was wavering and blurry, making him nauseated.

“Sir?” said Telford, appearing at the door.

“Kindly escort Miss Kent out to her carriage.” It was an effort for Harrison to keep his voice steady.

“Yes, sir.” The butler turned to Charlotte. “Miss Kent?”

“Good night, Lord Bryden,” said Charlotte.

Harrison did not look up as Telford followed Charlotte out.

It was only after the door had closed that he took the bottle of laudanum from his drawer and poured a dose into the remainder of his brandy. He swallowed it in a single gulp, then shut his eyes and slumped across the desk in defeat.

There was nothing more he could do for anyone that night.

Chapter Eight

A
RCHIE
B
UCHAN SHIFTED RESTLESSLY ON HIS FEET
and vehemently cursed God, Jesus Christ, and the handful of Christ's disciples whose names he could remember.

He hated waiting.

Life in prison had been all about waiting, he reflected bitterly. He had waited for morning so he didn't have to lie against his louse-ridden bed listening to the snores and farts and moans of the others holed up with him. He had waited for his jug of frigid water and harsh soap, because it enabled him to rinse out the foul scum that constantly brewed in his rotting mouth. He had waited for his gluey porridge, greasy soup, and sour milk, because he knew if he didn't eat, he would die. He had waited to start his ten-hour shift of picking oakum or making nets, because if he didn't work he was beaten and sentenced to the crank machine. And then he had waited for night to fall once more, his body aching, fingers blistered and bloody and raw, so exhausted that he scarcely noticed the foul smells and sounds poisoning the air around him.

Patience meant survival.

Some inmates around him had not understood this. They had permitted their bodies to weaken. They had let their minds become brittle. They had failed to keep their rage burning hot within them. But not Archie. He was not about to let himself die or go mad, which were the only two options for escape.

Instead he had focused on the certainty that one day he would be free to eat what he liked, get drunk when he wanted, and bury his cock in as many women as he could afford.

It was this same patient determination that had enabled him to keep watch on Charlotte's house the entire night, waiting. He had seen her go off by carriage the previous evening, and had still been standing there when she returned. He had watched the three young whores who were staying with her return at different times as well. When boredom had set in he had occupied his mind with thoughts of what he might do to each of them if he had the time or the money. When that grew tiresome, he thought about what he would do to Sal when they returned to their shabby room instead. Sal wasn't young or bonny, but she knew a thing or two about pleasing a man, and he didn't have to pay her for the privilege. Once he had his money, though, he'd find someone more to his liking. Someone younger and fresher, who hadn't opened her legs for every prick who ever bought her an ale or told her she wasn't hard to look at. Sal was a bit soft that way. She wanted a man to look after her. Although Archie hadn't done much in that regard, when he quiffed her he made sure he rubbed her muff, which caused her to groan with pleasure.

He had never liked prigging women who just seemed to endure his attention.

“Is he up yet?” demanded Sal, yawning as she emerged from behind the last house in the row.

“No.”

“It's still early, Archie,” Sal pointed out, scratching herself. “Why don't ye go catch a few winks, an' I'll stay here an' watch for him? There's some crates back there that I piled up, so ye don't have to sit on the ground.”

“I ain't tired.”

“You look half dead.”

“I always look this way.”

“I don't know how ye'd know, since ye ain't got no mirror.”

“For Christ's sake, Sal, either shut yer gob or go back to sleep. I ain't movin' from here.”

“Fine, then,” she snapped. “Don't sleep. I don't care.”

“Good.”

She glowered at him. The man was impossible. All she was trying to do was offer him a little bit of comfort after he had been standing on his feet all night. Most men would have been thankful. They might have chucked her under the chin and told her she was a good girl, then let her lead them back to the nice, dry chair she had made. They might have entrusted her to take over the watch, knowing that she was smart and would be sure to wake them the minute she saw anyone come out of the house. But not Archie. He had to do everything himself. He didn't trust anyone—not even her. It hurt a little, the fact that he didn't believe her ardent promises that she would never betray him. It also made her sensitive to the fact that he made no such assurances to her. In the end, though, it didn't matter if he wouldn't swear himself to her. Lots of men had promised to be true to her, then either fleeced her or lifted the skirts of another woman. She'd known a few girls who'd run around on their men, but that was rare.

Girls knew they'd get a fist in the eye if they looked at another.

“There he is.” Archie's mouth curved with satisfaction as young Flynn emerged from the house.

“What's he doin' out so early?” wondered Sal. “If I was him with a nice house and a clean bed, I'd sure sleep later than this.”

“Old habits die hard,” mused Archie, watching as the slight boy moved quickly down the front steps. “He's used to risin' afore the sun, to get off the street and out o' the doorways afore someone lands a broom on his arse.”

“Where's he goin' then, at this hour?”

“Let's find out.” Archie lowered his cap, hunched his shoulders forward, then offered one arm to Sal.

“Why, thank ye, Archie,” she said, surprised by his unusual show of courtesy.

“We'll take less notice if we look like man an' wife. Straighten yer hair, ye look like ye've been blasted by a gale.”

Sal's hands flew self-consciously to her stringy, clumsily arranged hair. “Better?”

“It'll have to do. Come on, I don't want to lose him.”

They shadowed Flynn at a distance through the streets. The boy moved quickly, as if he had a purpose in mind. He walked with a kind of jaunty air, his head up, his feet tripping lightly over the sidewalks and cobblestones. His dark blond hair dripped out from underneath a brown cap, and although it was a bit long and ragged, it had obviously been recently washed and combed. His plain coat and trousers were loose-fitting but clean, and his leather boots seemed relatively new. There was a confident, almost swaggering manner to him that one did not find in most eleven-year-old lads from respectable homes, but Archie knew it well. That was what one got when one took a filthy, conniving urchin, cleaned him up a bit, and put him in clean togs. It was not enough to fool Archie, but at first glance, the lad looked decent enough. That put him at an advantage. Nobs got all addled when they saw a scruffy little urchin about, fearing that the beggar was about to nick something off them. Dressed in his fancy traps with his face scrubbed and his hands washed, young Flynn had a look of near-respectability to him. A few more years in Lottie's tender care, Archie reflected, and he might be just as polished at playing a swell as she was.

But deep down he would still be scum, just like the rest of them.

“Quick little bugger, ain't he?” said Sal, her ample breasts heaving against the constraints of her corset.

“Come on, Sal, keep up—I feel like I'm half-draggin' ye.”

“I'm tryin',” she told him crossly. “You'd be havin' a hard time too if you was wearin' these bloody heels. They ain't made for traipsin' all over London.”

“I don't know why ye waste good money on boots ye canna even walk in,” Archie snapped. “It's nae like ye spend yer time ridin' about in carriages.”

“When we're flush in the pocket, I'll be buyin' myself a new pair of boots,” she assured him. “I know the ones I want, too; all toffee-colored with leather soft as cream, and tiny little buttons that look like gems.”

“Just make sure ye can walk in them,” he muttered, dragging her along. “If ye can do that, they'll be worth whatever ye pay for them.”

They followed Flynn down several more roads, until finally he came to one of the modest shopping streets near Drury Lane. The shopkeepers were busily opening their stores and setting up tables and stalls in front. These were being filled with everything from handsome leather books to delicate ladies' combs and fans and neatly pressed gentlemen's handkerchiefs. If goods were attractively displayed in the open air, the men and women strolling by might be more likely to make a purchase. For aspiring thieves this left the goods vulnerable, particularly if the shopkeeper had to go into the store for a moment, leaving his display unattended.

Archie watched as Flynn casually sauntered along the street, his hands jammed into his pockets, whistling. The lad knew his business, Archie mused, feeling a flicker of respect. If the boy moved too quickly or looked nervous, he would immediately attract the suspicions of the shopkeepers. But if he took his time and appeared relaxed, then they were apt to think he was a lad with a bit of brass in his pocket, who just might be enticed to part with it.

Flynn meandered down the street, pausing to examine a book here, a pile of fruit over there. Suddenly an explosive sneeze tore from him, causing him to whip out a voluminous red handkerchief and double over. Archie watched with admiration as the boy snatched an apple from a cart just as the banner of red cotton went to his face. Flynn deftly slipped the apple into his pocket while making a spectacular show of blowing his nose, much to the revulsion of anyone who happened to be watching. He then stuffed the wadded up handkerchief into his pocket, cleverly masking the swell of his stolen fruit. He ambled along once more, still stopping to look at whatever happened to catch his eye. After a few minutes he fished the apple from his pocket, polished it vigorously on his sleeve, and bit noisily into it.

Archie was impressed.

“Clever little dip, ain't he?” Sal had also spent enough years picking pockets to recognize raw talent when she saw it.

“Canna imagine Lottie would let the lad go hungry,” reflected Archie. “He stole that apple 'cause he knew he could. An' if he's anythin' like me, he'll want more—just to see if he can get away with it.”

“Come on then, Archie.” Sal grimaced as her shoes bit into her feet. “Let's get it done and over with.”

“I want to see what he has in mind, first. Best way to find out what he can do is to watch him.”

Sal groaned, but didn't argue. She knew if she made too much trouble Archie would just leave her behind, and she didn't want that.

They strolled along arm in arm, blending in with the other early morning shoppers who were now crowding the narrow street. They paused to look at something when Flynn stopped, then pretended to lose interest and moved on after him. After the lad ignored several opportunities to lift something without the attending shopkeeper's notice, Archie began to suspect that Flynn had a specific destination in mind.

Eventually the boy came to a tidy little shop that sold tobacco and sweets. Beautifully arranged behind the front windows on the left side of the store was a tempting array of succulent candies. The other side of the store specialized in tobacco products. To Archie's surprise, this was the side to which Flynn gravitated. The lad stared through the glass at tall jars filled with dark mounds of fragrant tobacco, and cigarettes and cigars packed in neat little boxes that were decorated with fancy gold lettering and exotic-looking stamps. A handsome collection of smoking accessories complemented the display, including elegant sterling silver cigarette cases, heavy ashtrays made of crystal, marble, and onyx, and an assortment of spectacularly carved pipes.

Flynn stood close to the window, his hands in his pockets. He seemed fascinated with the adult delicacies within, but no one took much notice of him. The round, balding shopkeeper gave him a friendly sort of look, perhaps thinking he might have a copper or two to splurge on a sweet, but in the next moment a gray-haired gentleman entered the store in search of some tobacco, and Flynn was forgotten. The boy edged a little further over, watching as the shopkeeper removed one of the tall jars of tobacco from the front window. The owner then turned to take it to the back of the store, presumably to measure out some for the elderly patron who had just gone inside.

Flynn swiftly withdrew a small knife from his coat pocket, inserted it in the corner of one of the glass panes, then sneezed as he pushed firmly against it. The sound covered the cracking of the glass, which fractured in the approximate shape of a star. He pressed a sticking plaster against the broken pane, pulled the glass out, then thrust his small hand inside and began scooping up the pipes and cigarette cases, stuffing them into his coat pockets. Within twenty seconds he had taken as much as he could carry. He propped the broken fragment of glass back up against its casing, then turned and walked away, whistling.

He had only gone a few feet when the shopkeeper suddenly looked up from his counter and noticed the broken pane of glass.

“Stop, thief!”
he roared.

Flynn shot forward like a cannonball, racing amidst the outdoor carts and stalls as he tried to escape. Determined not to lose him, Archie threw off Sal's arm and sped forth as well. He was in reasonable shape for a man of some fifty-odd years, but the bevy of angry shopkeepers and bystanders who raced forth to apprehend the young thief quickly outpaced him.