My Favorite Thief (7 page)

“It's highly unlikely that she'll be dead. The Dark Shadow is a jewel thief, not a murderer.”

“That changed last night, I'm afraid. Once he shot Lord Haywood he became a murderer, which means the authorities will have to intensify their efforts to find him. If he kills Redmond's ward, they'll be under even greater pressure to bring him to justice. The Shadow's days are numbered now, mark my words. I'll see you downstairs, Harry,” he finished, tucking his newspaper under his arm. “Don't be long.”

Harrison waited until the door had closed behind Tony. Only then did he raise his hands to his head and squeeze.

He would not take any more laudanum. He had to keep his mind sharp. He wouldn't have any wine with his lunch, either, so he could be alert to what everyone was saying about the Dark Shadow. If he was to avoid being captured, he needed to remember what they knew. And he could remember, he told himself adamantly.

He shoved the memory of his father away, focused on overcoming the pain looming in his head.

I will not give in to you,
he vowed harshly.
I will not.

T
HERE NOW,” SAID
A
NNABELLE, BREATHLESS AS SHE
piled three more packages into Oliver's quivering arms. “That's seven pairs of evening shoes, four shawls, and a half dozen new pairs of gloves. All we need now are some stockings and undergarments, and we can go home and have Charlotte try on some gowns.”

“Why don't you take all these things back to the carriage, Oliver,” Grace suggested, “and then meet us up at the end of the street? That way we can go into a few more shops along the way without you constantly trying to find a good place to stop the carriage.”

Oliver peered over the mountain of boxes heaped in his arms at Charlotte. “Are ye fit to walk a wee bit more, lass?” he asked, concerned. “Or would ye like to leave yer sisters to finish the rest and come back to the carriage?”

“I'm fine, Oliver.”

In fact her leg was stiff and aching, but she was not about to admit that to either him or her sisters. From the moment she had disembarked from the carriage and begun shopping with Annabelle and Grace, all of her senses had told her that she was being followed. At first she had told herself she was being ridiculous. Who could possibly be interested in following her? Yet the sensation continued, a nagging awareness that had been honed in her from the time she was a child living on the streets. Of course more people in the shops were staring at her than usual, because the moment they realized who she was the shopkeepers began exclaiming how relieved they were that she was alive. But it wasn't the public's fascinated gawking that was making the hairs prickle along the back of her neck. Someone was watching her.

And she was convinced that someone had to be the Dark Shadow.

“You go back to the carriage, Oliver,” she instructed, smiling at him. “We'll be along shortly.”

Oliver regarded her doubtfully. He had spent too many years battling his own aches and pains to not recognize the signs in others. “Are ye sure, lass?”

“I promise to return to the carriage the moment I get tired,” Charlotte solemnly vowed.

“We won't be much longer, Oliver,” Annabelle added. “Just a few more stores.”

He huffed impatiently. “That's what ye said an hour ago.”

“But this time we really mean it,” Grace assured him. “And we won't let Charlotte overdo it—we promise.”

“See that ye don't. The lass is nae accustomed to traipsin' all over London in search of a pair o' shoes.” With that he turned and headed back to the carriage.

“You are all right to continue, aren't you, Charlotte?” It suddenly occurred to Annabelle that she was not being sensitive to her sister's infirmity. “If you like, Grace and I can finish buying what you need without you.”

“Actually, I was thinking I might just stop for a bit,” Charlotte admitted. “Why don't you and Grace go into this store and I'll just stay outside and look in some windows until you're finished. I do find standing in the shops much harder than being outside where I can move around a little.”

“I'll wait with you,” Grace offered, disliking the idea of leaving her sister alone.

“No, that isn't necessary,” Charlotte hastily assured her. “You'll only be a few minutes, and Annabelle may require your opinion on something. I'm sure we can finish up quicker if you are there to help her make a decision—otherwise, Annabelle is liable to just buy everything in the store.”

“I'm not quite that bad,” Annabelle protested, laughing.

“You are when you're left on your own,” Grace teased. “Very well, Charlotte. We promise not to be long.”

“Take as much time as you need.” Charlotte smiled. “I'll be fine.”

She waited a moment for them to go in the shop. Then she casually glanced down the street, searching for the tall, broadly built figure of the Dark Shadow. There were dozens of people crowding the narrow sidewalk, but none of the men struck her as commanding enough to be the infamous thief who had held her so tightly the night before. She began to limp along, enduring the fleeting stares of surprise or pity that she always elicited.
Ignore them.
On and on she walked, trying not to feel humiliated as others passed her. She had not gone far, but it was sufficient to make her realize that her leg would not take her much further. Frustrated and discouraged, she stopped and turned around.

And saw a tall, heavyset man dart into one of the alleys leading off the fashionable thoroughfare.

Her heart pounding against her ribs, she moved toward the alley, trying not to draw any attention. The tide of people walking on the street had become thick and fast, and it was a struggle for her to make her way through it.
Wait for me,
she pleaded silently, a flame of anticipation flaring within her. She had thought the Dark Shadow had disappeared from her life forever. But she had been wrong. It would have been easy for him to return to her house that morning, waiting for her to emerge. Understandably, he did not want to approach her while she was in the company of her sisters. That explained why he was clandestinely following her. He was waiting for a moment where he might find her alone, no doubt so he could thank her for helping him.

While she was enormously pleased to see him again, she had to make it clear that no thanks were necessary. She would reassure him that she was happy to have been able to help him when he so desperately needed it. And then, in what scant minutes remained, she would plead with him to abandon his life of crime. She would encourage him to try to build something honest and pure with his abilities, which she was certain were considerable, so that he could make a decent life for himself without the constant fear of being imprisoned, or worse.

The alley was dank and sour with the stench of sewage and rotting garbage. She forced herself to inhale shallow breaths as she limped along the refuse-strewn path. The Dark Shadow had crept quickly down the passage and disappeared behind a pile of decrepit crates.

“You don't need to be alarmed,” Charlotte called softly. “It's only me.”

He didn't answer.

“No one knows you are following me,” she added, trying to put him at ease. “I slipped away. If my sisters start looking for me, they'll likely begin by going into a few shops. They'll never think to search for me here.”

No response.

She bit her lip, wondering why he didn't answer her. “Are you all right?”

He emerged slightly from the shadows and nodded. The rough cap pulled low over his forehead masked his features, and his manner was wary. Clearly he was not certain she could be trusted.

“I'm glad to see you're feeling better,” she told him. “I was very worried about you last night. When they told me you were gone, I feared you might not have had the strength to make it safely home.” She took a few tentative steps. She didn't know whether he trusted her enough to permit her to see his face, obscured though it might be.

“It is dangerous for you to be following me,” she continued. “A police detective came to my house last night looking for you. I'm afraid he may not have been satisfied with my story of how you released me. After you leave here, you must be careful not to seek me out again. Do you understand?”

She had nearly reached him. She paused, waiting for him to instruct her not to come any further.

Silence.

“Was there something you wanted to tell me?” Her voice was gentle, almost coaxing.

He said nothing.

“Do you want me to go, then?”

He shook his head.

“Shall I come closer?”

He hesitated. Finally, he nodded.

Nervous excitement was pouring through her now, making her feel both elated and just a little afraid. She took a step toward him, and another, until she was close enough to reach out and touch him.

His head was bowed and the light dim, but she could still make out the grizzled gray upon his lined, weathered cheek. She stared at it, surprised. She had not expected the Dark Shadow to be quite that old. Her gaze shifted from the roughly cut line of his jaw to his mouth. It no longer struck her as full and sensual as it had been the night before. The mouth she was staring at was thin and spare and hard, its corners barely lifted in a harsh smile. And then her eyes fell upon the thick white scar that branched out from the lower lip.

Sick, paralyzing dread suddenly gripped her, rendering her unable to speak.

“Hello, Lottie,” drawled a low, amused voice. “I'm guessin' ye didna expect to find me here, did ye?”

Archie raised his head as he stepped out of the shadows, giving her the full benefit of his face. “What's the matter?” he asked sarcastically, taking perverse pleasure in her terrified shock. “Ye'd think yer old man was come back from the dead.”

No,
thought Charlotte, feeling as if she was going to be sick.
He can't be here. He can't.

“I must say, ye dinna look too happy to see me,” he remarked, frowning. “Why don't ye come over and give us a kiss? Or do ye think ye're too fine to touch a filthy dip like me?” He snorted with laughter.

“What do you want?” she managed, her voice barely a whisper. She was not a little girl anymore, she reminded herself desperately. He had no power over her anymore.

She glanced wildly about the alley, feeling dangerously alone and vulnerable.

“Why, I just wanted to see ye,” he declared innocently. “Surely a da's got the right to see his own flesh an' blood, don't he? Especially after spendin' four long years doin' hard labor in prison. Gives a man a lot of time to think, hard labor does. Do ye know about the crank machine, Lottie?” His gaze narrowed. “Do ye know how many times a man has to turn it in a day, or suffer the cut o' the lash?”

Charlotte numbly shook her head.

“Ten thousand,” he told her. “Sounds impossible, don't it? An' some days it is—especially when the warder makes the screw so tight ye have to heave yer whole body against the fuckin' thing just to get it to turn once. First to go is yer hands—the skin on 'em blisters an' rots, but ye scarce notice because the bones get so cramped ye feel like ye'll ne'er be able to open yer fingers again. An' then it's the rest of ye that's ruined, from yer wrists right down to yer feet. But ye canna think o' that. By the time ye've finished ye're all but dead, but then they're draggin' ye to it the next day, an' there's nae ye can do but start over, an' hope it doesna kill ye afore yer time is up. But o' course it didna kill me, as ye can plainly see.” He smiled at her, exposing a jagged row of yellow, rotting teeth. “I'm a survivor, Lottie, like you. Although, I must say, I didna expect ye to survive near as well as ye have. I mean, just look at ye with yer fancy togs, ridin' about in a carriage. Ye've come long way from the dirty wee lass who used to pick pockets and raise her skirts for a bit o' brass in Devil's Den, that's for sure.” He spat on the ground.

“How did you find me?” she whispered, still struggling to accept that the man standing before her was real, and not some dreadful nightmare.

“Well, it weren't easy,” he admitted. “After I got out I moved 'round a bit and stayed clear of Inveraray. I figured ye was probably dead. Ye always was weak and sickly, and I thought if prison didna kill ye straight off, reform school would. But after a few years I found myself near Inveraray, an' thought I'd try to find out what happened to ye. Imagine my surprise when I heard some spinster who married some sod from the prison had sprung ye from jail. The prison governor wouldna tell me no more, but I figured if those people wanted ye, they could have ye. Ye'd have been grown by then anyway, an' it weren't as if I could look after ye. So I shoved on.

“Then a few months ago I comes to London, an' as I'm goin' about St. Giles an' Seven Dials, I hears about some crippled lass who has set up a home for whores and such—a lass who comes from money, on account of her bein' the ward of the Marquess of Redmond, who lives in the north o' Scotland. I asks around a bit, an' find out they call her Miss Charlotte Kent. An' I thinks to myself, a crippled Scottish lass named Charlotte, goin' 'round with doxies and priggers? So I finds out where yer house is, an' the minute I see ye limpin' out of it, I know 'tis my own Lottie, all grown up.” He picked at his teeth with a grimy nail. “So I'm thinkin', since ye've done so well for yerself all these years while I was rottin' in prison, 'tis high time ye shared a wee bit o' yer good fortune with yer da. After all, I'm the one who brought ye to the world. If nae for me, ye'd have nothin'.”

Charlotte bit the side of her mouth until blood leaked onto her tongue. All the fear she had suffered as a child was surging through her, rendering her unable to answer him. It was hopeless to argue anyway, she realized bleakly. Her father had never tolerated disrespect from her. Any fledgling signs of spirit or disobedience had always been swiftly quashed with either his belt or his fists.