Eloise finished her piece and spun on the stool to face him. “Did I play well, Uncle Hollis?”
“You played brilliantly.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. He turned to Ana and took her hand in his. He raised it to his lips. “Thank you.”
She blushed. “Thank you for recommending me for this position. I have loved it.”
“Hollis, do release the teacher’s hand,” Randolph said from the doorway. “She needs to be getting on with the lessons.”
Ana’s color deepened, but it no longer looked like a blush born of pleasure.
“Ignore him,” Hollis whispered. “It is what I prefer to do.”
“Except when you need to ‘discuss something’ with him,” she whispered, a glint in her eyes.
“Pity me, Ana. I’m about to suffer greatly.”
She smiled. He released her hand and crossed to his brother.
When he was far enough from the instrument to not be overheard if he kept his voice low, Hollis asked, “Do you have a moment, Randolph?”
“I had hoped to slip out for a moment, see to a bit of business.”
“This is important. We can talk in your library or here in the corridor, wherever you prefer to discuss your close association with a known inveterate gambler.”
Randolph’s expression grew immediately strained. “Library.”
Hollis motioned for him to lead the way.
They walked in silence to the room their father had once ruled from. He had been a hard and difficult man to live with in addition to being a selfish wastrel.
Randolph snapped the door shut behind them. “Inveterate gambler?”
“You know as well as I do who I am referring to and why.”
“Alistair does gamble,” Randolph said, “but I don’t engage in games of chance as often as he, neither do I participate in games with the high stakes he does.”
Hollis could have throttled him. “After all the lectures you have given me about our family reputation and your backbreaking efforts to restore the Darby fortune and name . . . you are gambling?”
“That is rich coming from the person who gambled his way through Eton.”
Hollis forced a calming breath. “I never had the neediness for it you did. That Father did. That Grandfather did.”
“I have done more to refill the family coffers in the last three weeks than I have in the last three years,” Randolph said. “I have always been skilled with cards.”
“Every Darby who ever lived was skilled with cards,” Hollis drawled. “And far too many are slaves to them. Alistair Headley is known to frequent dens where that enslavement will be used against you in devastating ways.”
Randolph’s face twisted in a pointedly patient expression. “I don’t go with him to those places. I’m not a fool.”
“If you are gambling with what little financial stability you have, you are precisely that.”
Randolph paced away angrily. “I am not in over my head, Hollis. I only play with other gentlemen, only low-stakes games, and only now and then. I have turned down most of Alistair’s invitations to various card games. I am being responsible.”
Oddly enough, Hollis believed him. He seemed entirely in earnest. “Did you ever play with George Thompson?”
Wariness touched the lines of Randolph’s face.
“Thompson had to retrench due to gambling debts,” Hollis said. “He was a responsible sort, not a known gambler like those in our family. I couldn’t imagine him following Headley to one of the copper dens he’s been spotted at, nor undertaking games with enormous stakes. Yet, he’s ruined.”
Randolph swallowed thickly. “I’m more careful than he was.”
“Does Cora know?”
Tension seized Randolph’s posture. “Are you threatening to tell her?”
“No.” Hollis shook his head. “But Society is a small circle. She will hear it from someone eventually, and I don’t know that she will be comforted by how ‘careful’ you’ve been. Games of chance are what started our family down this road sixty years ago.”
“Don’t lecture me,” Randolph said. “Everyone assumes the Darby estate pays you like a good younger son, but I know that’s not true.”
“Have you spotted me at any of these games you frequent?”
Randolph pointedly didn’t answer.
“Have I come to you even once in my entire life begging for funds?”
Again, no answer.
“Have I embarrassed you in public? Sullied the family name? Caused whispers beyond the idle gossip Society indulges in no matter the circumspect nature of a person’s life?”
Begrudgingly, Randolph said, “No.”
“Then save your posturing, Randolph. I gambled in school like you did. I was better at it, yet you’ll not see me at a card table. I have too much respect for our mother’s pain to cavalierly take up the cause of it for my own gain.” He reached for the library door. “And I care too much about my sister-in-law and my niece and nephew to stand back and watch them suffer the way Mother did—the way we did. I’ll keep an eye on things.”
“Do you fancy yourself a spy?” Randolph scoffed.
“I fancy myself a great many things, none of which you should underestimate.”
With that, he left, snapping the door behind him and trudging all the way out of the house. Returning on foot to his rented flat would take the better part of an hour, but he knew his frustration would benefit from the exertion.
Randolph was a fool.
Hollis refused to see his family destroyed by one again.
More tiny thieflings were at work in the finer neighborhoods of London, with a high concentration near Pimlico. The DPS no longer believed Very Merry was the one known as the Phantom Fox, because that elusive thief was still whispered about on the streets.
When word reached the Dreadfuls of a new young thief, known among the urchins as Blue Bill, they sprang into action. Hollis joined the evening’s search, though no one had indicated he was needed. He was determined to show them he was useful.
Hollis made his way to the area around Belgrave Square under the cover of nightfall. He knew the homes and families there better than any of the other Dreadfuls.
The Rollinses appeared to be having a soiree. Their house was lit and bustling. The Phantom Fox had been known to undertake thefts in homes right under the noses of dozens of people. The Rollinses’ home would bear watching.
Eaton Place was quiet, as was Chester Street and Wilton Street. Hollis even slipped past his brother’s house. Knowing Randolph was not associating with the best sort of people lately, Hollis made a quick check of the ground-level doors and windows. The home was secure and peaceful, reassuring him for the moment.
Onward he walked, taking stock of one home after another. All was as it should be. When his steps took him past the Rollinses’ house for the third time, he decided to stop ignoring his instincts and make a more thorough inspection.
If I were attempting to pilfer something from a house this busy, how would I go about it?
From the back, for one thing. And by way of the shadows.
Hollis slipped around the side of the house, slowly and cautiously, keeping close watch on every corner, every dark path, every window. Nothing was out of the ordinary. A terrace led off the home’s drawing room. It was lit and in use.
Around a corner, fully in shadow, sat a quiet wing of the house that didn’t appear to be part of the evening’s festivities. A rather perfect arrangement for a thief as slippery as the Phantom Fox.
Hollis kept to the shadows. He studied the small nooks and hiding spaces a child-thief could easily slip in and out of. No one was there. He rounded the corner of the dark wing of the house, intending to simply watch a while. The chances of actually catching their little thief were slim, though the current situation at the Rollinses’ house did incr
ease the odds.
He found a dim, quiet corner and leaned against the brick wall, hidden from view by both the darkness and a tall, thick shrub. He waited. Not ten minutes after arriving at his chosen post, he spotted movement. A nearby window had been opened, and someone was climbing out.
He studied the shadowy figure. Clad all in black. Too tall for a child, but small for a full-grown man. Perhaps the Dreadfuls had been misinformed about the age of Blue Bill. Or perhaps, like Very Merry, Blue Bill was not the Phantom Fox.
Hollis inched toward the escapee. They were far enough from the bustling area of the house to go unnoted but only if they were both quiet. He planned to be.
Feet on the ground, the thief tiptoed away from the house. The man moved with undeniable grace. It was little wonder he’d managed to slip in and out of so many homes undetected. Quiet agility was invaluable to a sneak thief.
Moonlight caught on a flash of silver as the thief slipped something into the pocket of his close-fitted overcoat. What had he stolen this time?
The Phantom Fox, if that was who this was, turned from the house, affording Hollis a better look. For a moment, he couldn’t make sense of the conflicting information he saw.
Trousers. A man’s coat. Head and face covered by a stocking cap with eyeholes. A telltale lump at the back of the head consistent with a large knot of hair. A figure not well enough hidden to be mistaken for a man’s.
The thief wasn’t a child or a man. The Phantom Fox was a woman.
Hollis positioned himself along her escape route, ready to do battle if need be but hoping it wouldn’t prove necessary. She spotted him and stopped at a distance near enough for conversation but too far away to offer any further clues as to her identity.
“The Phantom Fox, I believe.” He chose a lower-class accent to match his clothes. “People’re whisperin’ about you.”
She offered an abbreviated bow. Why a bow and not a curtsey? Surely she knew he could tell she was female.
“You’re causing a heap of trouble for the little ones hereabout,” he said,
Her head tipped to one side, a gesture that communicated confusion.
“They’re being blamed for your thievery,” he explained. “I ain’t saying they haven’t dirt on their hands, mind. But you’re adding mud upon mud, and they’re too little to wash it off.”
He hadn’t the first idea if she would even care about the plight of the urchins, but he had to try. “Take a bit of the heat off ’em, will ya? Lay low a while, or give off thieving altogether.”
The Phantom Fox shook her head, silent. There were so few clues to identify her—intentional, no doubt.
A noise sounded in the direction of the busier part of the house. The Phantom Fox glanced that way, posture wary and alert. Hollis felt equally ill at ease. Being caught out would be a disaster.
They’d both have to move quickly toward the gate at the back of the garden. He only had a moment in which to decide if he ought to appeal to her conscience more or try to convince her to turn herself in.
She turned to look at him once more. Before he could say a word, she snapped a saucy salute. Quick as a cat after a mouse, she leapt onto a nearby stone bench, then onto a decorative pillar, its top ending a bit short of the wall, then onto the wall itself. She perched there. Nothing lay on the other side. How did she mean to climb down?
After the length of a breath, she jumped, disappearing from view behind the wall.
Hollis darted to the gate and around the back side, fully expecting to find her there, limping, if she was lucky. But she was gone, without leaving so much as a footprint in the grass or a smudge on the paving stones. He hadn’t the first idea what direction she’d gone.
The DPS had been in search of an eight- or nine-year-old urchin. They would soon realize their search was far more complicated.
by Mr. King
Installment IV,
in which our Hero makes a most gentlemanly Apology and a shocking Discovery!
The house was far too quiet. For two days, not a sound had been heard. Mrs. Smith, Wellington suspected, was upset with him. Mr. Smith, who was seldom seen as it was, made not a single appearance. The most glaring absence of all, though, was Tillie’s.
Wellington had gone by her house repeatedly, but she hadn’t answered his knock, neither had she come by the manor house. How was he to apologize, to convince her that he did not, in fact, believe her capable of anything so underhanded as thievery if she would not allow him a moment in which to do so? His visitors had cast that aspersion, yes, but he had not. He would not. He could not.
Oh, was ever a man so vexed with the impossible task of apologizing to a woman?
Some three days after he’d last had a conversation with anyone inside the walls of his house, Wellington walked the corridors with his hands tucked in his pockets. His shoulders drooped under the burden of his loneliness. Even the elusive thief had abandoned him. Not a single item had gone missing in the past few days.
“I haven’t a single soul with whom to share my change of fortune.” It was his own fault, truly. He ought to have immediately risen to Tillie’s defense. He ought to have said more to discount the hints of accusation his visitors had lobbed in her direction. The weight of regret only added to the stooped nature of his posture.
On and on he walked, making one lonely circuit after another. Minutes passed. His mind did not clear. If only Tillie would return and be his friend once more.
Into the cavernous quiet came the sound of footfalls, not rushed or threatening, but at ease and at home. Wellington kept perfectly still, listening and pondering. The steps drew closer. He stood his ground, unwilling to cede more of his peace of mind than the thief had already taken from him.
But it was no thief who appeared from around a bend in the corridor; it was Tillie.
So surprised was he that Wellington could not even manage a greeting. Fortunately for him, she did not appear to need one.
“Things are being stolen from our cottage,” she said without preamble. “Unless you think I am thieving my own things, I’d say your mystery thief has changed locations.”
“I don’t think you are stealing from yourself.”
She folded her arms across her chest and tipped her head to the side. “Only from you.”
“I don’t think you’re stealing from anyone,” he insisted. “Those visitors said that; I didn’t.”
“You didn’t disagree with ’em,” she said. “You said you would think on it. That ain’t a vote of confidence, is it?”
“I was trying to get them to leave faster,” he said. “Arguing the point would have prolonged their visit.”
She lost a bit of bluster. “I know I ain’t fine and proper like they are.”
“And I far prefer your company to theirs.” He reached out to take her hand, but she stepped back. The rejection was warranted, yet still it stung. He took a breath and regained his footing. The business at hand would be his best step forward. “What has been taken from your home?”
“A few coins,” she said. “My little amber cross that I wear on the chain your mother gave me. A spade.”
“A spade?” That was a decidedly odd thing for a thief to make off with.
She shrugged. “That one didn’t make sense to us either.”
“You helped me search my house for clues,” he said. “Might I be permitted to offer the same assistance?”
“I’d not object.” She jerked her head toward the front of the house. “Shall we?”
He walked at her side all the way to the front drive, then along the path that would take them to her cottage. A fair stretch of moorland separated their two homes. They would have time and plenty for either talking and repairing things between them or sinking ever further into the awkward silence between them.
“I am sorry for what happened with my guests,” he said.
<
br /> She shook her head. “I forget sometimes how much things have changed over the past years. You’re a distinguished gentleman; I’m still the steward’s daughter.”
“You are my favorite steward’s daughter.”
“My father is your favorite steward?” A hint of her usual mischief returned to her tone.
Wellington bumped her lightly with his shoulder. “I believe you know perfectly well what I meant.”
She smiled fleetingly. “We have always been good friends, have we not?”
“The very best.”
She looked up at him. “Then why is it you didn’t believe me about the blue flame? You didn’t ridicule me for it, but I could tell you thought I had cobwebs in m’ attic.”
“I thought no such thing,” he said with a laugh. “I don’t doubt what you saw. It was simply unexpected, and I hadn’t an explanation for it.”
Tillie stopped in her tracks, eyes trained up ahead. She pointed a slightly shaky finger. “Perhaps that will shed a bit of light on the matter.”
Up ahead, floating above the ground, moving back and forth, not diminishing, not growing, was a light. Not any light. A blue one.
A blue flame.
Tillie’s shoulders set. “After it!”
And she ran.
Ana had never been caught making a repossession, though it had been a near-run thing a couple of times. That she’d been found out was unnerving enough. That the one who’d caught her had been none other than Hollis Darby had left her utterly upended.
Had he recognized her? Had she given herself away?
He would condemn her for certain. If he told Elizabeth, Ana would be fired. He wouldn’t permit her to continue tutoring his niece. The characters in Mr. King’s latest story might have been able to find common ground between a gentleman with Society connections and a woman suspected of thievery, but she had no hope that such a thing was actually possible.
The Gentleman and the Thief Page 12