My Favorite Thief (28 page)

“Or that once the other Dark Shadow realized who you were, he stole a handkerchief from you and purposely dropped it to point the police in your direction,” Charlotte theorized.

Harrison frowned. “How would he have gotten his hands on one of my handkerchiefs?”

“He could easily have picked one of your pockets without your noticing. Even I could do that, and I'm sadly out of practice. Or he could have hired some young pickpocket eager for a quick coin to do it. Or he could have broken into your home and taken one.”

Harrison preferred to think that someone had taken a handkerchief from his person, rather than breaking into his house. He realized that was ironic, given all the break-ins he had committed during his life.

“Did you explain all of this to Inspector Turner?” Charlotte asked.

“Inspector Turner is overjoyed that he has captured the Dark Shadow—especially given that he believes I tried to kill him last night. In fact I kept him from getting his head blown apart, but he doesn't know that. If I tell him I was the Dark Shadow, but am not anymore, he will simply dredge up my old crimes and point out how closely they match the new ones. That will only further implicate me. I'm afraid there is nothing to be gained by telling him the truth, Charlotte. I've told him I was trying to catch the Dark Shadow, but that made little impression upon him. Unless this new Dark Shadow is caught before I go to trial, there is no reason for Turner to question the solidity of his case. Unfortunately, I don't believe this thief is going to steal again.”

“Why not?”

“Because my capture brings his career to a perfect end,” Harrison explained. “To have another man hang for his crimes, bringing the case of the Dark Shadow to a close.”

“Or to have you in particular hang for his crimes, Harrison. Has it not occurred to you that this man could be driven by his desire to see you take the blame for his actions? Why else did he just happen to have one of your handkerchiefs available to drop as evidence on the very same night you confronted him?”

“We don't know for certain that he did that,” Harrison pointed out.

“Even if he didn't, I don't believe it is a coincidence that this man just happened to decide upon the guise of the Dark Shadow,” Charlotte argued. “His thefts were meticulously planned and executed, which demonstrates he is intelligent. Yet he started leaving notes identifying himself as the Dark Shadow. Why would he select a guise that had been made famous nearly two decades ago?”

“At the risk of sounding conceited, because he admired my reputation.”

Charlotte shook her head. “He may have admired it enough to adopt your methods, but that doesn't explain why he elected to go by the same name. Why not let the public give him his own name, based on his own feats? Or create a name for himself? Criminals love notoriety, and they like to be known for their deeds, however ugly they may be. Their legacy may be brief, but in my experience, they like it to be their own.”

“Are you suggesting that whoever is doing this has actually been trying to get me arrested for these crimes?”

“I'm not sure,” Charlotte said. “But if that is the case, then he has accomplished what he wanted. Your arrest. The only thing that might make him steal once more is if he thought you had been released.”

“Inspector Turner is convinced he has captured a dangerous murderer. Unless we produce the real Dark Shadow, he has no reason to let me go.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who might have a desire to see you punished?”

“Several come to mind,” Harrison reflected ruefully, thinking back to the indiscretions of his youth. “But I find it hard to believe that any of them could have coddled their anger this long, to a point where they would go to such drastic measures.”

“It is possible one of them is angrier than you think, and has just managed to hide it until now.” Charlotte thought for a moment. “We have to get Inspector Turner to say he will release you. That's the only way we might be able to rouse this Dark Shadow to action again. We have to make him think his plan has failed, and that you are still a threat to him.”

“Turner will refuse. All you will succeed in doing is further incriminating yourself. I won't let you do that, Charlotte. I don't give a damn about what happens to me, but you—”

“I'm not going to ask him to actually release you,” Charlotte interjected, “only to
say
that he has released you. We need to set a trap, and to do that we need the Dark Shadow to believe that you have been cleared of all suspicion. If my instincts are right, whoever is trying to implicate you will not be able to tolerate your going free. Secondly, I don't intend to speak to Inspector Turner myself. I know someone who will be far more effective at getting him to agree to our plan than I.”

Harrison regarded her curiously. “Who?”

“Annie. She was most upset to learn that he had been shot. If I recall his expression correctly on the night he met her, Inspector Turner will be quite willing to see her.”

“He may be willing to see her, but that doesn't mean he'll agree to go along with your plan.”

“If he won't, then we'll have to come up with another one. What I won't do, Harrison, is stand by and watch you be tried and sentenced for crimes you did not commit. If it comes down to having to admit to the crimes of your youth so you can avoid being tried for murder, then that is what you must do.”

“My past will only further condemn me.”

“Or it may absolve you.”

“To the extent that I'll be sentenced to years of incarceration as opposed to being hanged. I'd rather hang and get it the hell over with.”

“I wouldn't.”

He regarded her with aching regret. “I'm sorry, Charlotte. I never meant to drag you into all of this. And I never meant to hurt you.”

“The only thing that is hurting me now is watching you resign yourself to this fate. We can change our fates, Harrison. I did it. So can you.”

“That was different.”

“You're right. I didn't have the advantages you have.”

“What advantages?”

“You're strong, educated, wealthy, and respected. You come from a privileged background, and you know you can withstand the storm of scandal that will surround you once this is over. Most important of all, you are loved.” Her voice was softer now, almost ragged. “That was the only thing I had when Genevieve took me out of prison. She gave me love, and a family who loved me and made me feel safe.” She reached out and hesitantly laid her hand against his chest, so that her palm could feel the beating of his heart. “And that is what I will give you, Harrison. If you'll let me.”

Even as she spoke the words, she was astonished. But there was no time for shyness and propriety, or for words to be left unspoken. And somehow Harrison brought out a completely different woman in her than the quiet, retiring, selfless Charlotte Kent she had always been to the rest of the world. Harrison made her feel passionate and angry. He made her want to fight, not just for the injustices of others, but for herself as well. All her life she had believed that she would never meet a man who would love her with the passion that she longed for. But Harrison did. She could feel it in the fervor of his touch, the hunger of his kiss, the desperate longing of his body. He made her want more from life than what she had previously accepted.

He made her want him.

And if she lost him, she did not think she could bear it.

Harrison closed his arms around her. “From the moment you shoved that bloody hairbrush at me, I knew you were trouble,” he murmured, pressing his lips to hers. He kissed her deeply as his hands roamed across her, trying to memorize the feel and taste and scent of her, his senses ablaze with desire and regret. “Charlotte, I—”

“Here we are,” called out Digby cheerfully, his key grinding in the lock.

Charlotte turned away, frantically smoothing her hands over her hair and gown as an oblivious Digby picked up the heavy tray he had set down upon the corridor floor.

“Digby, you've really outdone yourself,” marveled Harrison enthusiastically, momentarily blocking the old warder's view of Charlotte as he strode forward to examine the tea Digby had prepared. “Just look at those biscuits—they look glorious.”

“They're a bit broken,” Digby apologized, glancing ruefully at the plate of fragmented cookies. “But they taste good.”

“I'm sure they are absolutely splendid,” Harrison agreed. “Come, Miss Kent, may I offer you a cup of tea?”

“I'm afraid I cannot stay any longer, Lord Bryden,” Charlotte replied, trying extremely hard to not look like a woman who had just been in the throes of a passionate kiss. She pressed her lips together, fearing they might appear swollen. “I have a number of things to attend to.”

Digby looked crestfallen. “Are ye sure, Miss Kent? I found a nice clean cup just for ye—I washed it meself.”

“That was extremely kind of you, Mr. Digby, and I am most grateful,” Charlotte assured him. “Unfortunately, I do have to be off. Thank you for agreeing to see me, Lord Bryden,” she continued, turning her attention to Harrison. “I hope you will reflect seriously upon all the things I have said.”

“I shall indeed,” Harrison promised gallantly. “Well, Digby, since we cannot convince Miss Kent to stay, I hope you won't mind escorting her out.” He gave the old warder a meaningful glance, as if he couldn't wait for him to hustle his pious guest out of there.

“As ye wish, milord,” said Digby, nodding with understanding. “After you, Miss Kent.”

Charlotte kept her spine stiff and her expression frozen as she limped out of Harrison's cell. Panic ignited within her as Digby locked the heavy door behind her. She imagined herself banging the unsuspecting warder on the head, stealing his keys, opening the door and freeing Harrison. Which would, of course, accomplish nothing. As if sensing her despair, Harrison began to whistle cheerfully as he poured himself a cup of tea. His apparent calm, real or forced, enabled her to take hold of herself. She waited in silence for Digby to finish locking the door before leading her down the dark end of the corridor.

It was only after the door to the ward had banged shut that Harrison stopped his idiotic whistling. He stared blankly at the cracked china teacup that Digby had brought especially for Charlotte.

And then he picked it up and heaved it against the window, causing the delicate shell to shatter against the iron bars.

Chapter Fourteen

A
LADY HERE TO SEE YOU,
I
NSPECTOR, SIR.
S
HE SAYS
it's most important.”

Lewis scowled at the obsequious young police constable standing nervously before him.

Everyone at Metropolitan Police Headquarters, otherwise known as Scotland Yard, was in the throes of anointing Lewis as the brilliant young detective responsible for finally catching the infamous Dark Shadow. He had gone from being a laughingstock to being a hero—at least amongst the police and the victims of the elusive jewel thief. Journalists had been crowded outside the building for two days, waiting impatiently for further details surrounding Lord Bryden's capture. Unfortunately, they also wanted to know more about Lewis, including personal details about his upbringing, his marital status, and, appallingly, the precise nature of his injury. It was this sudden, wholly unexpected invasion of his privacy that had caused Lewis to retreat to his desk after his initial announcement to the press. Let Chief Inspector Holloway make the statements, he thought acidly. The chief apparently enjoyed standing about pontificating about how he had seen to it that London was a safer place to live, as if he were personally responsible for Lord Bryden's capture.

“Who is she?” demanded Lewis.

“A Miss Annie Clarke, sir,” replied the young officer. “She claims to know you. She says she met you one night at the home of Miss Charlotte Kent.”

Lewis instantly forgot about the clutter of papers and assorted pieces of evidence on his desk. “Where is she?” he managed, fumbling with the buttons of his rumpled brown coat.

“Waiting out front, on the bench in front of Sergeant Jeffrey's desk. If you like I can escort her to you—”

“That won't be necessary.” Lewis grabbed his walking stick and began to hobble toward the front desk, grimacing as he fought the pulse of pain that snaked down his thigh every time he put pressure on it. His face felt a little flushed, which he hoped wasn't noticeable. He would have to make some comment about the heat of the day, when he saw her, just in case. He didn't want her to see him limping toward her and think he was about to faint.

“Good afternoon, Miss Clarke,” he said, affecting a bland formality that he hoped masked his powerful attraction to her the instant he saw her.

She was far lovelier than he remembered. The bruising around her eye had faded, and she regarded him with wide, intelligent eyes that seemed to delve deep into him, searching and assessing. There was no fear there, yet he sensed that there was no judgment, either, or if there was, it was not the scornfully dismissive type she had hurled at him the night he had refused to go after the man who had beaten her. He had long regretted his decision to not at least take some steps to find that bastard. What on earth could she have thought of him that night, except that he was an uncaring prick who didn't give a damn when a man smashed his fists into a helpless girl? He met her gaze with feigned calm, trying not to let her see the effect she was having upon him.

“Good afternoon, Inspector,” she replied politely.

Annie rose from the hard little bench on which she had been seated, trying her best to remember all the proper manners that Charlotte had attempted to teach her. She felt completely ill at ease in the legal confines of Scotland Yard, with all those bacon-faced peelers staring down their noses at her. She was dressed in one of Charlotte's day gowns, with a prim bodice that buttoned all the way up to her neck, long, slightly puffed sleeves, and a generously full skirt that swished importantly about her as she walked. She was also wearing one of Charlotte's hats. At first she had thought it was a bit plain, but once Charlotte and Doreen had pinned her hair up and then set the hat into place, Annie had to agree that it was actually rather elegant on her. She had been surprised by how nice and ladylike she looked. Charlotte's clothes made her feel a bit different—almost as if she were a woman of quality, instead of just a fashionably dressed whore. Former whore, she reminded herself adamantly. She sensed that people were looking at her differently as well. Certainly Inspector Lewis seemed to be staring at her a bloody sight different than the night he'd found her standing all drenched and bruised and ranting in the rain.

“I'm sorry about your leg.” She bit her lower lip, suddenly uncertain as to how she was supposed to act. Inspector Turner was far more pleasing to look at than she had remembered, a fact that was making her feel decidedly wobbly inside. “It ain't too bad, is it?”

“No,” he assured her. “It isn't too bad.”

“Well, that's a relief.” Annie glanced about, feeling as if everyone in the entire police headquarters was staring at them.

“Would you like to take a short walk?” Lewis had briefly considered escorting her back to his desk, but he did not have his own office, and Annie had already attracted enough attention there. Taking her for a walk was the only way they could speak privately without compromising her reputation.

He tried not to contemplate exactly what that reputation was.

“A walk would be nice,” she replied.

“If you don't mind, we'll leave by one of the doors at the back of the building,” Lewis suggested, recalling that there was probably still a flock of journalists waiting out front.

She pressed her lips into a tight line. Obviously he was embarrassed by the prospect of being seen in public with her. “If ye like.”

Lewis thought he saw a flicker of anger burning in her gaze. Did she not understand he was trying to protect her privacy as well? Bemused by her reaction, he escorted her to the back of the building, trying hard to ignore the curious stares that followed them. He told himself the police officers and detectives were only fascinated by Annie because she was so strikingly pretty. Also, he had just solved the case of the Dark Shadow; therefore, everything he did was suddenly of interest to them. Even as he ran these rationalizations through his mind, logic dictated that he at least acknowledge the more obvious reason for their stares.

Annie radiated pure sexuality.

It permeated the lush curves of her body, the soft scallops of her mouth, the easy, compelling sway of her hips. She was not dressed provocatively, for which Lewis was enormously grateful, nor had she dabbed any artificial color on her cheeks or lips. Nevertheless, there was something about her that was overwhelmingly, intoxicatingly alluring.

Or did he just think that because he was so drawn to her?

“That's better,” he said, escorting her out the door and into a brilliant wash of sunlight. “Now we won't have any prying journalists to contend with as we make our way down the street.”

Annie looked at him in surprise. “Was that why ye wanted us to slip out back, then? On account of them?”

“They've been making my life a misery since they heard the news about my encounter with Lord Bryden the night before last,” Lewis explained. “They want to know where I was born, who my parents were, what does my father think about me being a detective. One of them even had the nerve to ask my how much money I make a year, as if that were any of their damn business. I bloody well wanted to throttle him.”

He stopped suddenly, wondering if he should have used profanity in her presence. She appeared not to have noticed, or if she had, she was electing not to make an issue of it. He liked that. Even so, he would have to be more careful. He did not want her to think that he was speaking crudely in front of her because he didn't respect her enough to behave like a gentleman.

“Next time tell 'em to mind their own bloody business,” Annie advised, “or ye'll put a fist in their bone box.”

“Somehow I don't think my chief inspector would approve of such candor,” Lewis reflected, amused by her straightforwardness. “The police force has borne a lot of mockery and criticism in the past few months. Now that the Dark Shadow has been caught, the chief wants to enjoy the moment to the utmost.”

Annie fixed her gaze onto the street and said nothing.

Lewis regarded her uncertainly. He wondered if she would accept his arm if he offered it, or refuse it because she lumped him in with all the other peelers who clearly made her feel ill at ease. Deciding to take a chance, he offered her his arm.

Annie looked up at him in surprise. She supposed he was only doing the gentlemanly thing. Even so, she found herself extremely pleased that despite the fact that he was a peeler, he respected her enough to pretend she was a lady, at least in front of others. She laid her gloved hand against his sleeve, lightly, the way Charlotte had instructed her to if ever a gentleman might offer his arm to her. The hard muscle of his arm flinched as her fingers grazed it. She wasn't sure what to make of that. Mindful of the fact that he was limping, she began to walk slowly with him down the street.

“When I heard ye'd been shot, I imagined the worst,” she confessed. “I thought ye'd snuffed it, for sure. I was glad to hear ye hadn't.”

“I was lucky.” It pleased Lewis to think that she had actually been worried about him. “The bullet only hit me in the leg.”

“Will it heal all right?”

“Yes.” He didn't want her to think that he would be limping about with a cane forever.

“Well, that's a mercy.” She looked away, feigning a sudden fascination with a carriage that was clattering down the street. “Yer wife must have been awful scared.”

“I'm not married.”

She glanced back at him. “Ye ain't?”

“No.” He thought he detected a trace of relief in her eyes. Or was he just imagining that because he wanted to believe she might actually be interested in him?

“Why did you come to see me today, Miss Clarke?” He studied her a moment, watching the reluctant tightening of her pretty little mouth. “Did Miss Kent send you?”

“In a manner of speakin', yes,” Annie admitted. “She wanted me to ask ye somethin'. But I also wanted to come and see ye as well,” she swiftly added, “just to see for myself that ye wasn't hurt too bad.”

“I'm moved by your concern.” His tone was slightly arid. He knew it was absurd to think that Annie had come just to see him. She had not been thinking feverishly about him night and day. She probably had a long line of men waiting to sample her various charms, her stay at Miss Kent's house of refuge not withstanding. “What did Miss Kent want you to ask me?”

“It's a bit of a favor, really.” Annie could feel his sudden coolness. She wished she hadn't been there to ask anything of him. She wished she had only been there to go for a walk with him, to stroll along in the summer sunshine, her big skirts swishing along the sidewalk, venturing a polite smile now and again at the other gentlemen and ladies passing them, as if she were a proper lady.

“Go on.”

“It's just that Miss Kent is sure Lord Bryden ain't the man ye're lookin' for,” she blurted out suddenly. “She swears he ain't the Dark Shadow. Only now that ye've got his lordship in the coop, she's sure the real Dark Shadow will never be caught. She thinks he knew Lord Bryden was tryin' to nab him, an' now that ye've got Lord Bryden instead, the real Dark Shadow will just go about his regular life, laughin' all the way to his grave while his lordship gets stretched for his crimes.”

So that was it, Lewis mused. Miss Kent's relationship with Lord Bryden must have been just as intimate as the facts had suggested on the night Lewis watched her visit his home in the middle of the night. He wasn't surprised by that, given her insistence upon seeing Lord Bryden in prison the previous day. While Lewis could find no evidence that the two had ever met prior to Bryden taking her hostage at Lord Chadwick's house—assuming that the masked man was Bryden—Lewis was now convinced that Miss Kent had played a vital role in helping Bryden escape that night. What he found most intriguing was that two people of such opposite character and background could be so attracted to one another. Lord Bryden was confident, bold, outspoken, and had once enjoyed a reputation for seducing some of London's greatest beauties. Miss Kent was hardly the kind of woman with whom he typically dallied. She was a shy, fading, crippled spinster from crude beginnings, who would never be accepted amongst the aristocratic society she had been brought into. He found himself wondering if Bryden actually cared for her, or if he had merely used her to help him escape and advance his own ends.

“And just how is it that Miss Kent can be so entirely certain of Lord Bryden's innocence?” he asked.

“I ain't sure,” Annie admitted. “She wouldn't tell me that. And I don't know enough about Lord Bryden to say whether it's true or not. I mean, ye did see him shoot ye while ye was lyin' helpless. Why would he do such a filthy thing if he ain't the Dark Shadow?”

Lewis didn't answer. He couldn't, because he hadn't actually been conscious when he was shot, as Lord Bryden had so aptly pointed out.