The Gentleman and the Thief

by Sarah M. Eden

  “What do your guests think of Pip?” Tillie asked. “They couldn’t have missed that he’s an urchin.”

  “I don’t know that they’ve interacted with him yet.”

  Her gaze returned to the corridor, though he suspected she wasn’t really looking at anything in particular. “Are you afraid they’ll disapprove of him as well? Or accuse him of being the thief?”

  “They might,” he admitted. “Civility requires that I give them shelter from the rain, but there is no requirement that I allow them to be insulting.”

  “Pip and I are beneath them,” she said. “Their behavior is expected.”

  “But it won’t be endured. Should they cause you further pain, my dear, I will toss them out on their ears, rain or no rain.”

  Her expression softened. “Not many gentlemen would make that choice.”

  “They would if they knew you.”

  She swung their linked hands between them as they walked. “I think you’ve grown fond of me these past weeks.”

  “I’ve always been fond of you,” he said.

  “Fond enough to undertake ridiculous and likely dangerous adventures?”

  He let his amusement show. “Increasingly so.”

  Tillie tugged him onward. “Let’s go fetch some shiny things.”

  They’d been out on the moors for an hour without any sign of the elusive blue flame. Tillie was wearing every piece of shining, sparkling jewelry at Summerworth. Wellington kept near her with a wood-lined silver humidor at the ready. It was the shiniest box they could find.

  And, yet, they’d had no success. To compound the difficulties, the skies above were turning leaden. Heaven help them if they were caught out in such a place under such circumstances!

  “Perhaps we should come back another day,” Wellington said. “I’d not want you to catch cold.”

  “Pip will not rest easy until the bluecap is home. And your guests aren’t likely to leave until we recover the missing brooch.”

  He squared his shoulders. “That is all the motivation I need.”

  Tillie snorted, something a well-bred lady would never do, but which he enjoyed immensely. She was sunshine and fresh air.

  She held up two fists full of dangling bracelets and chains of precious metal, bouncing them about so they sparkled. “Mr. Thief,” she said in a singsong voice. “Come steal these fine things from us.”

  “That hasn’t worked yet, it won’t—”

  A blue flame appeared, no more than fifty yards ahead of them. Wellington pulled in a tight breath.

  Tillie shook the jewels.

  The flame darted forward then disappeared.

  “No, come back,” Tillie whispered. She kept the jewels up high.

  Wellington adjusted the silver box he held so the dim, cloud-infused sunlight glinted off it a little brighter as added incentive.

  The blue flame reappeared, but for only a moment.

  “We mean you no harm,” Tillie called out. “Truly we don’t.”

  “We want to take you back home,” Wellington added.

  Suddenly, the bluecap was visible again, closer this time. And it remained.

  “We know you come from the mine by Ipsley,” Tillie said. “We can take you back there.”

  Wellington opened the box. The flame disappeared.

  “Perhaps it ain’t fond of traveling in a box,” Tillie said.

  “I can’t say I blame it.” He tucked the silver humidor into the leather sack he’d borrowed from Mr. Combs. “Maybe we can convince the little sprite to follow us over the moors.”

  Tillie flourished the enticements again. “Mr. Bluecap! We want to take you home.”

  Nothing.

  She looked at him. “Perhaps if we start walking in the direction of Ipsley, it’ll follow?”

  Wellington shrugged. “It’s worth trying.”

  “I’d imagine it’ll take an hour of walking,” she warned. “And we’ve been out here an hour already.”

  He took the dangling jewels from her nearest hand, then slipped his fingers around hers. “I’m game for a long walk if you are.”

  They walked hand in hand, waving the sparkling lures about. The occasional backward glance revealed the blue flame following. But in the moment after they looked, it always disappeared.

  “It is following us,” Tillie whispered.

  “I know.”

  On and on they walked. The sky overhead grew heavier and darker. The wind blew fiercer with each passing moment. The moors were no place to be in a storm. They were too far from Summerworth to turn back and too far from Ipsley to be at ease. A bone-chilling gust nearly knocked Tillie over.

  “Perhaps we should’ve made this trek in the pony cart,” she said.

  “The flame would have spooked the pony. This could only be accomplished on foot.”

  After nearly an hour of winding through the moors, Ipsley came into view. The mine would be nearby. But where, exactly?

  Tillie looked around, uncertainty in her face. She, apparently, didn’t know either. “We cannot come this close only to fail. Where is it, Wellington?”

  “The mine or the bluecap?”

  “Either one,” she said. The wind pulled at her hair and dress, yet she stood stalwart and fixed. How could anyone not see and admire the strength of this remarkable woman? She spun and motioned with her handful of jewelry. “There’s the flame.”

  Wellington rushed alongside her toward their flickering quarry.

  “Please,” she called out. “We’ll help you find your home.”

  “Truly.” Wellington added his voice to hers. “Your mine is nearby; we know it is.”

  The blue flame flew further afield. They rushed after. They could not lose it. Not now. Not when they were so close to returning it to its home and ridding Summerfield of Alsop, Henson, and their lot!

  The bluecap suddenly stopped. It hovered in place, flickering but not truly moving. In the instant before they reached it, the flame dropped straight down and vanished, not into thin air. Into a hole.

  Wellington grabbed Tillie’s arm and pulled her to a stop, her toes mere inches from the edge of a mine shaft. He drew her back to safety. The hole beneath their feet glowed an otherworldly blue.

  “I believe our mysterious visitor is home at last,” Wellington said.

  Tillie leaned the tiniest bit forward and called down into the mine. “Could you return the things you stashed away? We’ve a shrew back at Summerworth who won’t leave us in peace without her brooch.”

  The light grew brighter. Tillie stepped back. Wellington put his arm around her, unsure what was happening or what threat might arise next. The last weeks had taught him to expect what he could not possibly foresee.

  A full dozen blue flames shot up out of the shaft and swirled around the two of them, whipping up even more wind than the storm brewing overhead. Tillie turned, burying her face against Wellington’s chest. He set both his arms firmly and protectively about her as they were enveloped by the flames.

  No heat emanated. Indeed, the flames were cold, like a draft from the dark corners of a . . . a mine. Stronger and stronger it blew, the pull of it twisting and turning. The vortex tugged at Tillie, threatening to yank her out of his arms.

  “Wellington!”

  He tightened his grip. “Kneel down.” The wind carried his voice away. Had she even heard him? “If we’re lower, it’ll be harder to topple us.”

  The whirlwind pulled her further, stretching his fingers painfully.

  “The wind is too strong.” Tillie’s voice pleaded with him.

  With every ounce of strength he had, Wellington pulled her against him as he lowered himself—and her with him—to the muddy ground below, kneeling in the midst of the onslaught.

  They hunched there as the blue whirlwind continued. They’d return
ed the wandering bluecap. Did its “family” think they’d kidnapped it in the first place?

  Tillie was still sliding away. Her slight frame was no match against the pull of azure wind. She would be torn from him, perhaps tossed into the mine shaft. He wrapped the open sides of his jacket around her, then crouched over her, trying to shield her and weigh her down.

  “We brought it home,” he called out into the cold, blue cyclone. “We mean no harm. Let us go. Please.”

  With a flash of white, the flames disappeared. Only the gusts of humid moorland wind remained, and the first raindrops of the breaking storm.

  Wellington kept still, waiting, watching for the bluecaps to return. Nothing emerged from the mine shaft. No light. No sound. No movement.

  Tillie peeked out from her protective cocoon. “Are they gone?”

  “I believe so.”

  She sat up straight, trembling and muddy. “I thought they’d blow me right off my feet and into the shaft.”

  “So did I.” He kissed her temple. “You weren’t hurt were you, my dear?”

  “No lasting damage.”

  They scrambled to their feet, muddied but otherwise well.

  “We make a fine team, Tillie Combs.”

  She smiled up at him, rain pelting her face. It was coming down harder now. They likely had time enough to reach Ipsley before the sky fully broke open, but only if they moved quickly.

  “We’d best hurry,” he said.

  He kept her hand in his, and they moved swiftly toward the town. It wasn’t until they were nearly there that Tillie stopped abruptly.

  “Our sparklies.”

  He looked at her, unsure what she meant.

  “All the jewels we were holding, to lure the bluecap onto the moors.” She held up her empty hands. “They’re gone.”

  He hadn’t even noticed. His handful was missing as well. “Did we drop them?”

  She shook her head. “I was clutching them tightly as I could manage.”

  He had been as well.

  Tillie looked back in the direction of the mine. “They took it. They took the treasures.” Her shoulders drooped. Rain dripped from her sodden hair. “I suppose this means Miss Fairbanks won’t be getting her brooch back.”

  “Likely not.” The wind blew rain up his sleeves and down his collar. They’d be soaked in another minute or two. “She’ll rail and bluster, but I’ll settle with her. Then she’ll be on her way. They all will be.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “A solemn vow.” He took her hand once more, the rain coming down in buckets. “But for now, my dear, it’s time to run for cover.”

  The only thing Hollis needed more than a nap was Ana’s company. Unfortunately, he hadn’t time for either.

  He’d returned to Thurloe after the previous day’s games to look in on his sister-in-law and her children. Not long before he’d arrived, word had come from Brogan that the records from White’s needed perusing. Hollis had spent the rest of that day and into the night searching out a member who could get him the information he needed. Then he’d returned to the Thompsons’ for more games and spying and snooping. Not willing to risk being caught out behaving in a suspicious way, he’d taken a hack all the way back to his flat, then another back to Pimlico, alighting several streets away and walking in the rain to the Newport house. He lock-picked his way through the back-garden door and slipped up to the lookout room.

  “Welcome back, you lazy bum,” Brogan greeted.

  Hollis tossed his dripping coat on the table. “Your line was ‘Hollis, you look worn down. Please, take a nap while I continue as lookout.’”

  Another voice answered. “And what’s my line?”

  He spun about, shocked to see Ana sitting at her leisure in a threadbare armchair, his latest penny dreadful in her hand, illuminated by a small candle on a copper candleholder. “I see this spot’s grown cozier while I’ve been running all over Town doing the difficult work.”

  Ana raised an eyebrow and looked to Brogan. “Is he always this grumpy when he’s tired?”

  “I’ve not seen him tired before, truth be told. He’s not usually the one doing the lifting.”

  Hollis pulled off his sodden gloves. “You make me sound like I’ve been out thieving.”

  “Shocking.” Ana’s theatrical tone pulled an exhausted smile to his lips.

  He dropped his gloves in his hat and set it atop his coat. “I could use a hug if you have one to give.”

  “Hollis.” Brogan pulled his name out long and singsong as he snatched Hollis into a bone-crushing embrace. “I’ve missed you, lad. Don’t ever leave again. M’ poor heart can’t take it. I—”

  “I will belt you, Donnelly.”

  Brogan laughed and dropped his arms. As he walked back to the window, he hooked his thumb over his shoulder in Hollis’s direction. “Best of luck with that one, Ana. He’s sore and sore.”

  “‘Ana’?” Hollis eyed them both.

  She rose from her chair and moved to him. “We’ve had a lot of time together, waiting for you. In addition to discovering his actual name, I’ve learned more about Dublin than I thought I’d ever know, and he is now an expert in the characteristics of various string instruments. And we are both now very familiar with the exploits of a certain one-time street urchin.”

  He pushed back his wet hair. “Fletch has been hanging about as well?”

  “He has a message for you,” Brogan said. “One he said he had to deliver in person.”

  “Which means he likely won’t let me sleep either.”

  Ana brushed her hand against his, her fingers warm against his cold skin. She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. Heat enveloped him on the instant.

  He put his arms around her. She returned the embrace.

  “You’re damp,” she said.

  “I had to walk from Hugh Street and sneak in the back.” No matter that he was ready to drop, he would not have traded the feel of her in his arms for even a moment’s rest. “I’m convinced people were standing on the rooftops, emptying buckets of water on my head the entire way.”

  She rested her head against him, dampness and all. He breathed in the scent of her, a warm, soft vanilla. How had he not noticed that before?

  “There ain’t time for that.” Fletcher made the pronouncement as he walked unceremoniously into the room.

  Hollis didn’t drop his arms away from Ana. Holding her gave him strength. “Brogan says you have a message for me.”

  Fletcher held out a sealed letter. A fleeting glance identified the stationery. For the first time in his two years as a Dreadful, Hollis had been sent a direct correspondence from the Dread Master himself.

  He kissed the top of Ana’s head, then stepped away. She knew of his efforts at the Thompson house. She knew some of those involved in the mission. But she didn’t know about the Dread Penny Society. It had to remain that way.

  “You are near enough to my father’s size,” Ana said. “I’ll gather you a change of clothes from his armoire. Then you won’t be wet and cold.”

  “Thank you.”

  Once Ana left the room, Hollis broke the seal on the Dread Master’s letter. The rainy skies outside provided very little light, so he crossed to Ana’s candle, tipping the paper enough to see the neat writing.

  “This isn’t your penmanship,” he said to Fletcher.

  “I’ve told you myself that I ain’t the Dread Master,” he said. “Didn’t you believe me?”

  “I don’t always know what to believe.” He dropped his gaze once more to the brief letter.

  Hollis.

  Received your report. We cannot ignore that the one-time Crow and the Raven are likely one and the same. Maneuver into a game with him. Catch him cheating. Gather proof. He must be stopped.

  DM

  Hollis pushed out a breath.
This was what he’d wanted: the Dreadfuls to trust him with something other than scraping and bowing. The Dread Master’s note gave him that in spades. Why, then, did he feel tired instead of excited?

  Hollis tore the note in half, then half again, continuing the effort as the pieces grew ever smaller. Fletcher set an open flask on the table beside the candle. Hollis dropped the bits of paper into it. He’d seen Fletcher do that often enough after reading correspondence from the Dread Master to know the proper way of disposing of the paper. Fire was also considered an acceptable means of destruction, but this was easiest in the moment.

  “Your Ana will return shortly,” Fletcher said. “Any instructions we need before she gets back?”

  “The Dread Master wants me to gather proof that the Raven cheats his patrons. That means going back. Getting in deeper. Likely breaking into areas of the house where I’m not actually allowed.” Hollis rubbed at his face. “We’ll eventually need to recruit a few more highborn Dreadfuls. This type of mission is beyond the scope of just one person.”

  Brogan spoke from the window while still watching the street. “How are you meant to play cards and sneak around the house at the same time? Does the Dread Master think you’re actually a pair of twins?”

  “Maybe he’s hopin’ you’ll toss Very Merry into the efforts, let her do the snooping for you.”

  Though he knew Fletcher had made the suggestion in jest, Hollis still gave a serious answer. “Very Merry is safe where she is. I won’t put her in any danger, no matter the enormity of all the Dread Master expects me to do.”

  A quick knock sounded at the door before it inched open.

  Ana peeked inside. “I have dry clothes for you, Hollis.”

  “You’re a worker of miracles.”

  She laughed and set the pile on the table. “Anything else I can do to keep my sainthood?”

  “Do you know any talented sneak thieves?” Brogan asked, laughter in his tone.

  Ana turned wide, worried eyes on Hollis. He knew what was weighing on her: she was a talented sneak thief, but they didn’t know that.

  “We’re hoping to gather evidence that the games across the street are manipulated,” Hollis said. “Brogan’s proposing a more creative approach than I’m planning to take.”