The Thief Read online

  “Good morning, my sweet sister,” Giles said gaily as he piled kippers, sausage, and a pile of scrambled eggs and kidney onto his plate from the silver warming dishes on the sideboard. “You look like the dog’s dinner.”

  “Why, thank you.” She stifled a yawn behind her hand. “What a lovely thing to say.”

  “Did you speak to Miss Lewis?” He sat down and shoveled half a sausage into his mouth. “What did she say?”

  “Must you behave like a lout even at breakfast?”

  “No, but I save my loutish behavior especially for you because I know you appreciate it so much. So what about Miss Lewis?”

  “I told her you plan to visit her father today, this morning, in fact. So I recommend you finish your breakfast and be on your way.”

  Giles turned pale. “Today! Why would you do such an appalling thing?”

  “I thought you wanted me to do so.”

  “I told you I was not ready to make an offer.”

  “I am so sorry, I must have misunderstood. I did not realize you wished me to destroy her chance of an alliance with Lord Blackhazel so you could indulge yourself in a brief flirtation.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Constance flushed and busied herself buttering a slice of bread. She was too tired to parry with her brother this morning, and she’d let her irritable mood get the better of her. Giles never seemed to need more than a couple of hours of sleep to be as chipper as a robin, and she envied him since she felt as if her head were stuffed with cotton batting.

  In response to her careless remark, an ominous silence filled the room. Giles bent over his breakfast, but Constance could see from the taut expression around his eyes that her barb had hit home.

  “I should have known better than to ask you for a favor,” he said at last, pushing away his empty plate. His gray eyes were dark with anger, making Constance feel very small and mean. “You are not precisely an expert on the topic, either, and methinks that is what has you in the devil of a temper. You set your cap at Mr. Davenport and sighed over him for the last three months, but he did not come up to scratch, did he? He asked Miss Grant to marry him two weeks ago. So you wasted your time in London, too, unless you were trying to make Blackhazel jealous.”

  “I was not trying to make anyone jealous.” She swallowed her anger. Protesting that she didn’t love Mr. Davenport and had only considered him for the role of husband because he seemed like he would be kind and generous made the fact that she had, indeed, wasted the last three months seem that much worse. Not to mention that Blackhazel hadn’t appeared the least bit jealous. Perhaps he knew all along that Mr. Davenport preferred another damsel, and Blackhazel would do anything to win the betrothal wager. “I’m sorry, Giles. I don’t wish to argue. We came home so late, and you know how I am when I have not had enough sleep. Truly, I did not mean to nag you. I never told Miss Lewis that you would visit her father this morning, although really if you are serious, you should consider it.”

  “I am not ready, yet.”

  “Why? What are you waiting for? It is nearly the end of the Season, and many families are leaving for the country. She may be gone soon. If you wish to propose, you should do so while you still have the opportunity.” She felt a small pang as she realized that the only Season she was likely to have had galloped toward the finish line as well, and she was unlikely to become betrothed, or win her wager with Lord Blackhazel, at this juncture.

  Her brother’s dark brows drew together, and she could almost hear him thinking that he wasn’t ready because he might meet a girl he liked better. That had always been his excuse for any delay: he might find something he liked better.

  Finally, he said, “I don’t like to be prodded. I am not a horse to be spurred forward, you know.”

  “Never mind. I told her you were lonely. It is all I could think of, and I thought it might make her pay more attention to you.”

  “Lonely!” He appeared startled at the notion that he could possibly be perceived as lonely by anyone.

  “As I said, it was the only thing I could think of. I could hardly declare your undying love for her, could I?”

  “I suppose not, but that is hardly the way to make her view me in a more favorable light.”

  “If you wish her to view you sympathetically, then the solution is simple: court her and bring her gifts like a normal young man.”

  “Like your Lord Blackhazel, you mean.” He sat back and crossed his arms, his eyes glinting from under scowling brows. “He is always giving away the most frivolous gifts.”

  “He is not ‘my’ Lord Blackhazel. We have known each other since we were children, and he has always been like another brother to me, although you could certainly take a page from his book.”

  “I supposed you mean by speaking to her father.”

  “Contrary to popular belief, Lord Blackhazel has not—” She stopped abruptly, realizing that if she told her brother that Lord Blackhazel hadn’t spoken to Mr. Lewis about offering for Miss Lewis, Giles would go back to ignoring Miss Lewis and generally behaving as if the girl were already his betrothed. If he truly wanted to marry her, he needed to pay attention to her, which meant he needed to worry about losing her.

  “What about Blackhazel?” he asked.

  “Contrary to popular belief, Lord Blackhazel has not shown the least bit of interest in me, and as I cannot view him in a romantic light, I believe that is for the best,” she finished lamely.

  Her brother’s grim face immediately cleared. “He is no brother of ours, my dear sister, and I doubt he feels like one. Is that what has been bothering you? Don’t worry, just dull your sharp tongue a fraction, and he will soon fall at your feet in adoration. We don’t leave for another week—plenty of time.”

  “Wonderful,” she murmured. “An entire week.”

  “Well, I am off.” Giles jumped to his feet.

  “Visit Miss Lewis, Giles. Please.”

  “Perhaps,” he flung over his shoulder as he strode to the door.

  “Bring her some flowers,” Constance called to his retreating back. “Roses! Pink roses!”

  However before he got to the hallway, their butler, Mr. Brown, announced Lord Blackhazel.

  Grinning, Giles slapped his friend on the shoulder and waved toward the sideboard where the silver dishes nearly full of eggs, kippers, ham, and other delights remained warming over small candles.

  “Have you had breakfast, Blackhazel?” Giles asked. “My sister will be glad for the company while she eats. She was frightfully lazy this morning and has just stumbled downstairs for a bite, herself.”

  “Giles, must you?” Constance asked in exasperation. “It is true, however, that I would not mind some intelligent company”—she cast a pointed glance in her brother’s direction—“during breakfast.”

  “Delighted.” Lord Blackhazel walked over to the sideboard and after lifting the lids on several chafing dishes, he assembled a light breakfast of eggs, kippers, and a few slices of toast. After placing his plate on the table, he pulled a square, brown-wrapped package out of his pocket and dropped it on the table.

  As soon as she saw it, Constance jumped to her feet. “Oh, I am so glad you reminded me, I nearly forgot. Wait here, please. I will only be a moment.”

  True to her words, Constance returned to the breakfast room less than five minutes later, carrying her own small, brown-wrapped parcel. She handed it to Lord Blackhazel before sitting down and taking a sip of her coffee.

  “What is this?” Blackhazel pulled out a pocketknife and picked up the object.

  “Nothing, really.” She tried to sound offhand, watching him over the brim of her porcelain coffee cup.

  When he pulled off the wrapping, he held up the book inside and then opened it to rifle through the first pages. “History of the Russian Empire by Nikolai Karamzin,” he read and then glanced at Constance with a smile. “Thank you. You must have a good memory. I doubt even Giles remembers my comment about the book the other day.”

>   “The other day? That was a month, or more, ago.” Giles grabbed the book and looked it over. “Expensive binding—green Moroccan leather. You are chronically short of pin money, where did you get the money for such a trifle, Connie?”

  “Giles! Don’t be rude.” She flushed and busied herself by pouring more coffee in Lord Blackhazel’s cup and then her own. “I thought Lord Blackhazel might enjoy the book, that is all.” She nodded to their guest. “And you are welcome. I hope you do enjoy it.”

  Her brother was correct in one thing: she always seemed to be short of funds. Two months ago, she’d spent most of her pin money on a set of monogrammed handkerchiefs for her father after he lost his favorite one. Then, in hopes of buying a copy of Emma, she’d saved last month’s allowance. However, when she arrived at the bookseller’s shop, she noticed a copy of the History of the Russian Empire displayed on the counter, and she remembered Lord Blackhazel mentioning to Giles that he was interested in reading the book.

  With only the briefest, longing glance at Emma, she had impulsively bought the book on Russia and requested the lovely binding to match the books in Blackhazel’s library, thinking she could give it to him at the end of the Season.

  Well, this is the end of the Season, now, she thought, sipping her coffee.

  Lord Blackhazel pushed the wrapped package he’d removed from his pocket toward her. “Would you like me to cut the string for you?”

  “Yes, thank you.” For some reason, she felt suddenly shy as she watched him cut the twine. Her heart fluttered briefly as their fingers touched when he handed the package to her. Then he smiled, and her breath caught in her throat. “Thank you,” she stumbled over the words, blushing when she realized she had repeated herself.

  “Look at it.” His smile broadened to create dimples in his cheeks.

  “What is it?” Giles leaned over, and Constance jerked the parcel back before he could grab it out of her hands.

  “It is a novel.” She could never mistake the feel of a book, even one covered in thick, brown paper. Unwrapping it, she emulated Lord Blackhazel and flipped through the first few pages. “It is Emma. How did you know?”

  “Don’t be a ninnyhammer,” her brother said. “You told both of us the last time we went to the bookseller’s, don’t you remember? You asked him about the book, only if I recall, you were a trifle short of funds at the time. Now if this excessively maudlin scene is over and you have finished your breakfast, Blackhazel, we have a horse to look at.”

  Shaking his head, Lord Blackhazel stood. “Thank you again for the book, Miss Archer. It was the perfect gift for the end of the Season. I shall enjoy it this summer.”

  “And thank you for Emma.” She barely finished speaking before the men left.

  Giles flipped a cheerful wave in her direction before he disappeared from view, following Lord Blackhazel, their heels clicking on the marble floor as they headed toward the front door.

  Despite her brother’s advice and Lord Blackhazel’s unexpected gift, she had no intention of spending her last week in London chasing after Lord Blackhazel, even if he might be her last hope at matrimony. Remembering how he’d pestered her during her childhood, she reminded herself that she wasn’t the least bit interested in him except as a friend. She had already become resigned to losing their wager and letting him have the book of Shakespeare’s sonnets her father had given her on her sixteenth birthday.

  Her heart contracted at the thought of losing her book of sonnets. How she could have been so daft as to wager the one thing she treasured more than any other possession, notwithstanding his gift of Emma? Then she recalled that Lord Blackhazel had wagered his entire set of Shakespeare’s plays and her idiotic behavior seemed a little less, well, idiotic. He had also wagered something he was loathe to lose.

  The day passed quickly as Constance made visits to friends who were busily packing trunks and boxes to leave London before the summer heat made the city unbearable. Soon, the entire week had passed in a whirl of suppers, balls, and last minute events, and although Giles went out a great deal with Lord Blackhazel, she didn’t see him again. Once or twice, she wondered if he had finally proposed to Miss Lewis or some other lucky woman.

  The trickle of departures turned into a flood and by Friday, Constance viewed their imminent travel to the Archer family’s country home, The Orchards, with relief. Even the thought of handing her book of sonnets to Lord Blackhazel seemed acceptable because it meant the wager would finally be settled and she could relax without that sword of Damocles hanging over her head.

  The Archer family spent Saturday in their own flurry of packing, preventing Constance from sending a note to Lord Blackhazel requesting that the wager be considered a draw unless he had managed to become betrothed during the last five days.

  On her last day in London, she carefully packed her book of sonnets and Emma in the bandbox she intended to carry with her and turned to check her chest of drawers to ensure she’d left nothing behind. To her dismay, she found the Peckham necklace wrapped in a silk scarf in the top drawer. She had forgotten to return the necklace to her cousin, and there was no time to do so now. The huge emerald in the center glittered evilly as she rewrapped it in the blue silk, the green glints reminding her of the curse.

  The gem was reputed to bring death to whoever possessed it, and Constance certainly felt cursed as she packed it carefully next to her book of sonnets. Her father had reluctantly indicated they would have to have a serious discussion when they reached The Orchards, and she feared she knew what the topic would be: she had wasted her Season, and he couldn’t afford another.

  They might be cousins to a duke, but that didn’t make them wealthy, and Constance’s father, Edward Archer, was too proud to ask his nephew for a loan. Her father also disliked the bustling city and had only escorted her there because her mother had passed away of influenza five years earlier. Her father believed it was his duty to grant Constance at least one Season in the metropolis, regardless of his personal feelings about the annoyances and expense of such an endeavor.

  Going through her wardrobe and chest of drawers one more time, she reflected that she certainly felt cursed by the necklace. While she hadn’t died, she might as well have since many considered living as a spinster to be essentially the same thing.

  Unhappily, she suspected they might be correct.

  Chapter Three

  “Are you sure you are well enough to travel?” Edmund Hansford, Baron Blackhazel, asked his uncle, Mr. Elsworth Hansford, as they clambered into the baron’s coach. He had noted his uncle’s gray color and dark hollows around his eyes at breakfast, but Edmund had been unsuccessful in convincing him there was no pressing reason to vacate London immediately as their lease on the townhouse the baron had rented continued until the end of the month.

  Hansford settled himself in the corner, leaning his head against the leather squabs. “I am quite well enough to travel,” he replied. He obviously had no intention of admitting to any weakness, and Edmund was reluctant to press him.

  Elsworth Hansford had suffered from travel sickness his entire life, although if asked, he would deny such a thing in the most vehement terms. To make matters worse, Edmund suspected from his uncle’s strained appearance and silence that he’d lain awake worrying about their journey home so delaying it further would simply mean another long night of sleeplessness.

  The carriage jerked forward, and Hansford stiffened, his eyes opening wide for a moment as he swallowed several times. Edmund watched him uneasily as the carriage wheels clattered over the cobblestones. When they swung around a corner, Hansford stared straight ahead, his body rigid as his complexion grew greener.

  “We can stop anytime you wish,” Edmund offered.

  His uncle’s mouth tightened, and he started to nod only to stop abruptly. He pulled out a voluminous white handkerchief and waved it in a gesture meant to be a careless acknowledgement of Edmund’s comment but only succeeded in convincing Edmund that their journey wasn’t going to
be a pleasant one.

  As they passed the red brick townhouse rented by Lady Nicola Bercow for the Season, Edmund was prompted to comment, “There are not any other items I should be concerned about are there, Uncle?”

  “Items?” Hansford’s eyes widened in mock surprise.

  Edmund gestured at the row of townhouses. “We just passed Lady Nicola’s home. You are fortunate. When I called on her Thursday last, I was able to replace that ceramic dog on her mantle when she stepped out for a moment. With luck, she may never realize it was gone.”

  “Ah, yes. The Pratt figurine. Lovely little spaniel, and I do so like china dogs.”

  “Well, I wish you would not borrow objects. There are not any others, are there?”

  Hansford shook his head. The gesture appeared to make him feel queasy for he leaned back, closed his eyes, and took several deep breaths before saying, “No, no. You found all of my little treasures. I am sorry, you know, but on occasion, I find it quit impossible to resist, um, borrowing.”

  And that is a masterful understatement. His uncle not only ‘borrowed’ from friends, but he also succumbed to temptation with objects belonging to family members. Edmund had managed to retrieve the book Miss Archer had given him before his uncle lost or secreted it away where no one would ever find it again.

  Miss Archer’s thoughtful gift brought a smile to his lips. She was so considerate, and he was glad he had remembered to get a copy of Emma for her since she had obviously used her allowance to buy the book about Russia for him.

  Perhaps that was what he found lacking in Miss Lewis: consideration. Somehow, she had simply not measured up when he thought about Miss Archer in comparison.

  “Perhaps it would be best, then, to have your valet sew all your pockets shut,” Edmund suggested. “It might lessen the temptation.”